- . ;  •  C:  '• 


THE  MATADOR  OF  THE  FIVE'  TOWNS 

|  OLn    '     •-  !        I  ME 

N  WITHTHEHICH  HAN!) 
WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOIN, -D 

,}•;•    -|'HE   ,    :  '['OWNS 

AN  FROM  THE  NORTH 
j|  B.e;         :>FCARLOT'17V 

>     ALIVE 
THE  GLIMPSE 
A  GREAT  IM/, 
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A/l*t  iAsf<i,VU 


THE     GLIMPSE 


BY    ARNOLD   BENNETT 

Novels 

THE  OLD  WIVES'  TALE 

HELEN  WITH  THE  HIGH  HAND 

THE  BOOK  OF  CARLOTTA 

BURIED  ALIVE 

A  GREAT  MAN 

LEONORA 

WHOM  GOD  HATH  JOINED 

A  MAN  FROM  THE  NORTH 

ANNA  OF  THE  FIVE  TOWNS 

Smaller  Books 

HOW  TO  LIVE  ON    24    HOURS  A 

DAY 

THE  HUMAN  MACHINE 
LITERARY  TASTE 
MENTAL  EFFICIENCY 

Drama 

CUPID  AND  COMMONSENSE 
WHAT  THE  PUBLIC  WANTS 

GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK 


THE  GLIMPSE 


An  Adventure  of  the  Soul 


BY 

ARNOLD  BENNETT 

AUTHOR   OF    "THE   OLD   WIVES'   TALE." 
"THE   BOOK   OF   CARLOTTA/'   ETC. 


GEORGE  H.  DORAN  COMPANY 
NEW  YORK 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
D.  APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 


CONTENTS 


BOOK   I 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I. — THE  CONCERT i 

II.— THE  PUBLIC 6 

III. — A  FINAL  PERFECTION 10 

IV. — BOND  STREET         .        .        .        .        .        .        .15 

V. — THE  MALADY 19 

VI.— THE  RETREAT 27 

VII. — BIRTH  AND  DEATH  OF  LOVE      ....     36 

VIII.— ON  INEZ 53 

IX. — THE  DINNER 62 

X. — THE  DEPARTURE 73 

XI. — THE  THUNDERCLAP 87 

XII. — IN  THE  STUDY 98 

XIII.— THE  DOCTOR 112 

XIV.— THE  NIGHT     .        .        . 121 

XV. — TOWARD  OBLIVION 128 

BOOK    II 

XVI. — AWAKING 134 

XVII. — SOUNDS  OF  NIGHT 145 

XVIII. — MARION'S  THOUGHTS 151 

XIX. — A  DRAMA 160 

XX. — THE  COST  OF  GRIEF .173 

XXI. — FREEDOM 180 

v 


M531678 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

XXII.— THE  WOMAN 182 

XXIII.— THE  PALACE 186 

XXIV. — CULMINATION 191 

XXV.— THE  DEATH  OF  DESIRE        .        .        .        .196 

XXVI.— BIRTH 202 

XXVII.— THE  PAST 210 

XXVIII.— THE  GLIMPSE 219 

XXIX. — ACCIDENT 231 

BOOK   III 

XXX. — RETURN    ........   241 

XXXI.— THE  MYSTERY 252 

XXXII.— THE  BEDSIDE  .        .....        .        .        .264 

XXXIII. — THE  CEREMONY 273 

XXXIV.— DISTURBANCE 281 

XXXV.— To  THE  GRAVE 294 

XXXVI.— MARION     ........   304 

XXXVII.— EDITH        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .312 

XXXVIII. — JOHNNIE'S  RETURN 330 

XXXIX. — THE  LOVER  AND  THE  MOTHER    .        .        .   339 

XL. — THE  DISAPPEARANCE 350 

XLL— AT  DARK          .        .        .    '   .        .        .        .363 
XLII. — THE  ATTITUDE 374 


THE    GLIMPSE 


BOOK   I 
CHAPTER  I 

THE   CONCERT 

1  PASSED  from  the  street  between  two  lackeys 
who  might  have  been  the  lackeys  of  Marie  An- 
toinette into  the  curtained  and  velvety  calm  of  those 
vast  suites  which  a  merchant  designed  in  order  to 
flatter  the  lust  of  eyes  like  mine.  Plush  on  the 
wide  silent  floors,  Indian-red  tapestry  on  the  walls, 
and  through  each  draped  doorway  confusing  and 
spacious  vistas.  The  woodwork,  the  bronze  fit- 
tings, the  crystal  stalactites,  the  molded  plaster — 
all  showed  curious,  elaborate  craftsmanship.  Hun- 
dreds of  artisans  in  soiled  smocks  must  have  la- 
bored for  months  with  dirty,  offensive  hands  to  pro- 
duce that  sedate  splendor.  But  they  were  all  gone, 
all  hurried  out  of  sight;  and  of  the  underworld 
only  a  gloved  servility  in  immaculate  hose  had  been 
retained.  In  spite  of  yourself  you  had  the  illusion 
that  some  powerful  wand  must  have  waved  the 

i 


THE   GLIMPSE 


place  into  sudden  and  complete  existence.  A  re- 
treat for  the  dilettante,  a  refuge  where  he  might 
be  secure  from  the  disconcerting  aggression  of 
inharmonious  phenomena!  A  temple! 

A  turnstile  clicked  me  into  the  central  hall,  under 
whose  dome  the  concert  had  been  arranged.  Opa- 
line stuffs,  ballooning  downward  from  the  dome, 
changed  the  sunlight  into  silver.  Hung  about  the 
large  room  were  forty  paintings  by  Charles  Con- 
der,  which  I  had  already  seen.  A  Conder  exhibi- 
tion had  closed  on  the  previous  day.  It  was  an 
exquisitely  luxurious  idea:  abasing  those  pictures, 
each  a  marvel  of  intricate  and  lovely  fancy,  to  be 
the  background  of  music.  Conceive,  in  the  ex- 
pectant hush,  the  gleaming  Bechstein  piano  with 
its  lid  pointing  upward,  the  rows  of  gilt  chairs, 
empty  or  occupied,  the  border  of  floor,  and  then 
the  ring  of  Charles  Conder's  women  voluptuously 
brooding  in  their  weak  but  eternal  beauty  amidst 
impossible  landscapes  of  ivory,  lavender,  and  rose. 

A  pianist  began  to  play  the  "  Miroirs  "  of  Ravel. 
(It  was  this  name,  on  the  programme  of  a  con- 
cert of  modern  French  music,  which  had  drawn  me 
from  the  pavement  of  Bond  Street  into  the  Rut- 
land Galleries.)  The  first  of  the  "  mirrors  "  in  which 
Ravel  reflected  the  extreme  originality  of  his  sen- 
sations was  called  "  Night  Moths."  Before  these 

2 


THE    CONCERT 


strange  insects  had  been  flitting  enigmatically 
about  the  room  for  even  a  couple  of  minutes  they 
seemed  to  have  chosen  a  special  victim  in  the  per- 
son of  an  old  man  with  a  small,  thin  face  and  a  short 
white  beard  who  sat  near  to  me.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders;  he  emitted  inarticulate  scorn  through 
his  nose.  His  resentment  then  forced  itself  into 
words.  He  muttered: 
"Morbid!" 

And  later,  in  a  loud  tone  that  attracted  attention: 
"  Ridiculous!  What  next,  I  wonder!  " 
And  as  the  night  moths  fluttered  to  rest  amidst 
timid  applause,  he  rose  as  if  in  a  paroxysm  of  holy 
anger,  snatched  his  hat  from  under  the  gilt  chair, 
and  strode  out,  snorting  protests.  People  turned 
to  gaze  at  him  an  instant,  mildly  and  politely 
shocked  that  a  human  being  should  exhibit  so 
much  feeling  about  naught.  But  I  liked  that  old 
man,  and  sympathized  with  him,  because  he  had 
wandered  with  brave  curiosity  into  the  wrong  gen- 
eration. Moreover,  he  had  made  me  sure  that 
Ravel  was  saying  something  powerful  and  beau- 
tiful in  its  originality.  Only  real  power  and  beauty 
could  have  so  quickly  flung  that  honest,  obstinate 
old  man  into  the  street.  He  would  have  laughed 
easily  at  pretenses  and  held  his  ground. 

"  Mournful  Birds,"  "  A  Bark  on  the  Ocean," 

3 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"The  Valley  of  Bells  "—these  were  names  of 
other  of  the  "  mirrors."  What  clever  things  might 
be  written  in  comparing,  for  instance,  Ravel's  birds 
with  the  "  plaintive  warblers  "  of  Frangois  Cou- 
perin,two  centuries  earlier!  But  I  amnot  now  com- 
posing another  musical  treatise.  The  tragic  grief 
of  the  birds,  the  febrile  and  yet  majestic  furrowing 
of  that  singular  bark,  the  evasive  sweetness  of  bells 
in  a  most  sinister  valley — yes,  I  could  describe 
these  matters;  but  to  no  end  save  the  extension  of 
my  own  personality.  Music  cannot  be  said.  One 
art  cannot  be  translated  into  another.  All  that  I 
can  say  is  that  I  was  aware  of  another  step  in  the 
art  of  music,  toward  the  ultimate  realism,  the  ulti- 
mate conquest  of  a  refractory  medium.  I  had  heard 
music  as  beautiful.  I  had  heard  music  which  to  me 
was  more  beautiful.  But  I  had  never  heard  music 
in  which  the  twelve  unchangeable  semitones  of  the 
octave — sole  material  of  all  our  music — were  so 
tenderly,  so  harshly,  so  cruelly,  so  brilliantly  teased, 
cajoled,  and  whipped  into  the  subtle  curves  of  an 
exceedingly  complex  temperament.  My  wonder 
was,  and  the  wonder  of  every  musician  would  be, 
"  How  did  he  manage  to  write  it  down?  "  How  did 
he  express  it  in  notes?  "  For  it  appeared  to  be  in- 
divisible into  its  constituent  notes.  He  had  car- 
ried musical  expression  further  than  anybody  had 

4 


THE    CONCERT 


carried  it.  He  had  done  that.  Wagner,  one  used 
to  hear,  had  dealt  music  such  a  blow  that  she  must 
lie  henceforward  motionless  forever.  So  she  had 
lain  stunned  until  Debussy  came  and  revived  her 
by  persuading  her  that  Wagner  was  a  fable  and 
had  never  lived.  Debussy  had  created  a  new  beau- 
ty, and  here  was  Ravel,  swift  on  his  heels,  creating 
still  another  and  a  newer  beauty,  communicating  a 
thrill  stranger  than  any  thrill!  I  exulted  in  this 
birth.  I  exulted  in  the  acute  distinction,  the  aris- 
tocratic audacity,  the  baffling  obscurity  of  this  ruth- 
less and  soft  music.  I  thought  how  fine  and  glo- 
rious it  was  to  hear  these  sounds  now  for  the  first 
time  heard  in  London.  I  could  have  cried  angrily 
to  the  audience:  "  Shout,  for  the  immortal  spirit  of 
beauty  has  passed  into  another  incarnation,  and 
you  before  all  others  in  this  city  have  witnessed 
the  advent. 


CHAPTER   II 

THE   PUBLIC 

BUT  the  applause  at  the  end  of  the  suite  of 
pieces  was  even  fainter  than  it  had  been  after 
the  first  number.  The  proudly  demure  minister 
of  beauty  rose  from  the  piano  and  bowed  to  a 
tremulous  and  feeble  clapping  which  expired  at 
once  as  though  afraid  even  of  itself.  And  the  pian- 
ist sat  down  quickly.  I  did  not  applaud,  because  I 
never  do  applaud,  my  feelings  not  being  readily 
expressible  in  violent  movements  of  my  hands  and 
feet.  Moreover,  even  if  I  had  had  time  to  decide 
to  protest  by  noise  against  the  general  indifference, 
the  protest  would  have  been  worse  than  useless,  for 
it  would  have  given  emphasis  to  that  awful  tepidity. 
After  the  lovely  confusing  sound  of  the  piano,  and 
the  little  April  shower  of  perfunctory  clapping, 
there  was  silence.  There  was  almost  stillness.  Peo- 
ple seemed  afraid  even  to  whisper  to  each  other  lest 
in  the  intimacy  of  the  domed  room  everybody 
might  overhear.  We  sat  glum  and  self-conscious, 
waiting.  My  lips  curled  savagely.  The  public  had 

6 


THE   PUBLIC 


failed  again.  The  public  had  displayed  again  its 
incurable  qualities  of  dullness,  unreceptiveness,  sus- 
piciousness,  and  fright.  (And  yet  this  was  a  picked 
public,  a  choice  handful!  No  common  public  would 
have  put  itself  to  the  trouble  of  coming  to  listen  to 
music  clearly  labeled  modern,  by  composers  of 
whom  it  had  scarcely  heard.  I  was  indeed  among 
persons  who  possessed  in  some  degree  the  divine 
gift  of  curiosity.)  Oh,  the  terrible  unresponsive  in- 
ertia of  the  well-intentioned  and  faithful  Anglo- 
Saxon  public!  Oh,  incomparably  blind  and  deaf! 
The  old  fight  would  have  to  begin  afresh,  and  it 
would  have  to  pass  through  all  the  usual  stages. 
And  then,  when  it  was  done  and  the  vanquished 
public  was  ecstatically  kissing  the  feet  of  its  con- 
queror, lo!  the  battle  would  recommence  yet  again. 
My  lips  curled  with  the  intensity  of  disgust.  I  pre- 
ferred the  snorting  old  man  who  would  not  toler- 
ate the  music  at  all  to  this  prim  apathy.  The  im- 
mense melancholy  which  for  a  year  past  had  been 
creeping  over  me  seemed  suddenly  to  lay  its  heavy 
folds  closer  upon  me.  My  exultation  in  the  genius 
of  the  music  remained,  but  it  was  transformed  into 
something  grim  and  bitter. 

A  whispering  occurred  among  the  performers  at 
the  end  of  the  room.  The  concert  was  conducted 
with  a  certain  informality,  and  the  artistes,  instead 

7 


THE   GLIMPSE 


of  going  in  and  out,  sat  at  the  back,  like  a  group  of 
priests.  Evidently,  now,  a  contretemps  of  some 
kind  had  arisen.  I  saw  the  solo  pianist  sitting  by 
himself  and  nervously  stroking  his  pointed  French 
beard.  I  got  up  from  my  chair  at  the  end  of  a  row 
and  went  to  him  and  bluntly  asked  him  for  the 
name  of  the  publisher  of  the  music  which  he  had 
just  played.  I  could  easily  have  obtained  the  in- 
formation otherwise,  but  perhaps  my  soul  was  forc- 
ing me  to  express  in  some  strange,  abrupt,  hard 
English  way  my  sympathy  with  his  mission  in  that 
place. 

"  Pardon  me,"  he  replied  nervously  in  a  low 
tone,  and  with  a  strong  foreign  accent.  "  Have  I 
the  honor  of  speaking  to  Mr.  Morrice  Loring?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said  stiffly. 

He  bowed.  So  did  I.  Then  he  picked  up  a 
piece  of  music  from  the  next  chair,  scribbled  on  it 
feverishly  with  a  fountain  pen,  and  handed  it  to  me 
in  a  sort  of  religious  fervor.  It  was  the  "  Miroirs  " 
of  Ravel,  with  a  dedication  to  myself  from  Ravel's 
interpreter. 

"  Deign  to  accept,"  he  murmured. 

I  could  not  argue,  for  the  delay  in  the  concert, 
whatever  it  was,  had  ended,  and  a  young  woman 
was  rising  to  sing.  I  thanked  my  donor  as  ade- 
quately as  I  could  in  the  time  and  circumstances, 

8 


THE    PUBLIC 


and  stole  back  to  my  seat.  Only  two  years  ago, 
how  such  a  recognition,  especially  from  a  foreigner, 
would  have  touched  and-  delighted  me!  Five 
years  ago  I  should  almost  have  regarded  it  as  the 
crown  of  a  career.  But  now  it  did  not  in  the  least 
move  me.  I  thought  the  man's  eagerness  rather 
childish,  rather  pitiful,  rather  absurd.  I  felt  that 
his  sense  of  values  was  wrong,  and  that  he  knew 
more  of  the  piano  than  of  life.  I  did  not  even  puz- 
zle my  head  to  conjecture  how  he  had  come  to  be 
aware  of  my  identity. 


CHAPTER    III 

A   FINAL   PERFECTION 

THE  young  woman  was  an  American,  adver- 
tised as  a  pupil  of  Jean  de  Reszke.  She 
seemed  to  be  a  highly  finished  article,  as  she 
stood  there,  expectantly  smiling,  with  her  back 
to  the  piano  and  her  arms  thrust  somewhat 
behind,  widely  aslant,  so  that  the  curved  fin- 
gers rested  on  the  piano.  Such  a  pose  must 
have  been  carefully  thought  out  and  long  prac- 
ticed, to  the  least  detail.  Her  frock  and  hat,  her 
gloves,  the  line  of  her  neck  chain,  had  all  been  the 
subject  of  deep  consideration.  She  had  an  agree- 
able platform  voice,  mezzo-soprano,  which  had 
been  admirably  trained  and  developed,  and  a  per- 
fect French  accent.  My  mind,  as  I  listened  to  her, 
dwelt  on  the  ten  thousand  hours  during  which  her 
voice  must  have  .run  up  and  down  on  scales,  in  warm 
months  and  in  cold  months,  always  the  same,  exas- 
perating the  neighbor  in  the  flat  above  or  the  flat 
below:  and  on  the  weariness  of  the  piano  and  of 
the  accompanist,  and  on  the  recurrent  excitation 

10 


A   FINAL   PERFECTION 


of  lesson  days;  and  on  the  intrigues  and  schemes 
for  success;  and  on  the  visits  to  dressmakers  and 
modistes  and  coiffeurs,  and  the  continual  pathetic 
effort  to  stretch  money  a  little  further  than  money 
will  in  fact  stretch;  and  again  on  the  schemes,  and 
again  the  schemes;  and  the  absurd,  wild  hopes;  and 
the  days  of  discouragement.  In  that  moment  she 
was  at  fruition.  It  was  to  be  able  to  stand  up 
graceful  and  elegant  there,  and  pour  pretty  sounds 
from  the  vase  of  her  body,  that  she  had  toiled  upon 
herself,  and  others  had  toiled  upon  her,  for  a 
decade  and  perhaps  more.  Five  minutes,  and  she 
had  done!  Interminable  cultivation,  endless  effort 
for  five  minutes  of  formal  display!  A  few  vibra- 
tions, a  glance,  a  smile,  a  gesture;  and  she  had 
done  all  that  she  could  do.  Once  a  week,  once 
a  month,  possibly  less  often,  she  lived  for  five  min- 
utes! 

And  it  was  all  useless.  She  sang  a  foolish  song 
of  Gustave  Charpentier's — a  song  born  dead — and 
she  sang  it  sentimentally;  she  liked  the  song,  bath- 
ing in  its  sickly  vapors.  She  had  learned  every- 
thing that  could  be  taught,  and  nothing  that  was 
worth  learning  without  the  original  gift  which  she 
did  not  possess.  This  fruition  of  hers  was  bad;  it 
was  unrighteous.  Those  neighbors  had  been  exas- 
perated for  worse  than  naught  during  all  those 
2  ii 


THE   GLIMPSE 


long  years.  And  she  did  not  know;  she  never 
would  know.  She  stood  there  in  her  simple  guile, 
and  in  her  expert  accomplishment,  wistfully  trust- 
ing in  the  efficacy  of  her  power.  In  that  she  was 
justified.  Before  the  last  chords  of  the  accompani- 
ment had  been  played,  the  audience,  impatient  to 
express  its  delight,  frothed  into  an  elegant  but  sin- 
cere applause. 

"Sweet!"  one  heard. 

And  it  was;  too  sweet. 

Her  eyes  sparkled  as  she  bowed.  For  such  in- 
stants as  this  she  existed.  Her  existence  was  a 
series  of  ascents  to,  and  descents  from,  such  in- 
stants as  this.  She  dreamed,  I  knew,  of  more  bril- 
liant successes.  But  she  would  never  have  them. 
She  lacked  temperament.  She  was  merely  the  ac- 
cidental possessor  of  a  small,  agreeable,  highly- 
trained  mezzo-soprano  voice.  On  a  stage,  in  a 
great  hall,  with  an  orchestra,  she  would  be  extin- 
guished. 

I  shrank  from  the  rest  of  the  programme,  and 
departed,  gloomy,  but  still  grimly  exultant  about 
the  art  of  Ravel,  the  impression  of  whose  music  I 
wished  to  preserve  unmingled  with  any  other  im- 
pressions. Already  the  Charpentier  had  contami- 
nated it.  A  woman  and  her  cavalier  left  at  the 
same  time,  but  perhaps  for  a  different  reason.  She 

12 


A    FINAL    PERFECTION 


was  young,  radiant,  beautiful,  arrogant,  and  mar- 
velously  clad.  She,  at  any  rate,  was  under  no 
compulsion  to  stretch  money;  clearly  she  had  com- 
mand over  a  gushing  source  of  gold.  The  cavalier 
was  oldish,  elaborately  dandiacal,  with  white  spats, 
a  white  border  to  the  opening  of  his  waistcoat,  and 
the  false  spryness  of  the  aging  beau.  The  woman 
hesitated  for  a  fraction  of  a  second  in  front  of  a 
Charles  Conder  near  the  door,  and  raised  a 
long-handled  lorgnon  to  her  black  and  haughty 
eyes. 

"  Pretty  thing!  "  she  observed  nonchalantly,  and 
passed  on. 

Charles  Conder  had  fulfilled  his  mission  in  her 
busy,  birdlike  life. 

As  they  crossed  the  acre  of  plush  that  separated 
the  dome  from  the  street,  they  talked  of  a  hotel  at 
Pontresina,,  in  their  high,  hard  voices.  At  the 
porch  an  automobile,  glittering  as  though  jeweled, 
and  as  large  as  a  tramcar,  came  up  with  the  silence 
of  a  ghost.  The  chauffeur,  staring  contemptuously 
in  front  of  him,  ignored  even  this  queen.  A  lackey 
opened  the  door  of  the  vehicle,  and  she  stepped  deli- 
cately in,  while  the  dandy  stood  bareheaded.  The 
door  clicked,  and  again  in  silence  the  glitter- 
ing and  immense  contrivance  swept  wondrously 
away.  The  dandy  replaced  his  hat,  glanced  down 

13 


THE   GLIMPSE 


to  see  if  his  necktie  was  behaving  itself,  smiled, 
and  strutted  off.  The  lackeys  resumed  their  im- 
mobility. 

"  There,  anyhow,"  I  thought,  "  was  the  last  word, 
the  final  perfection,  of  something! " 


CHAPTER   IV 

BOND   STREET 

FLAGS  were  waving  in  Bond  Street,  from  staffs 
perpendicular  on  the  roofs,  and  from  staffs 
horizontal  on  the  facades.  They  waved  continually 
in  the  sunlit  breeze  as  though  they  were  a  natural 
and  necessary  expression  of  the  triumphant  glory 
of  Bond  Street,  demonstrating  that  there  was  noth- 
ing like  Bond  Street  in  the  world.  And  probably 
there  was  not.  Next  door  to  the  Rutland  Galleries 
was  exposed  a  collection  of  leather  goods  to  which 
had  contributed  every  known  quadruped  with  a 
hide  to  his  back.  Gazing  into  those  large  and 
crowded  windows  one  was  convinced  that  no  activ- 
ity of  human  existence  could  be  correctly  carried 
on  without  leather  mounted  in  silver  or  gold.  One 
could  not  mark  the  hour  nor  the  day  of  the  month, 
nor  the  year,  without  leather;  nor  strike  a  match, 
nor  eat  a  sandwich  on  the  moor,  nor  write  a  letter, 
nor  pray  to  God,  nor  use  a  mirror,  nor  gird 
one's  loins,  nor  identify  one's  dog  nor  one's  cat  nor 
even  one's  self,  nor  smoke  a  cigarette,  nor  give  a 

15 


THE   GLIMPSE 


fiver  to  a  lady,  without  this  indispensable  leather. 
It  was  less  an  adaptation  of  leather  to  life  than  an 
adaptation  of  life  to  leather.  An  astounding  re- 
lentless ingenuity  had  expended  itself  in  forcing  life 
into  a  mold  of  leather,  and  fitting  it  there  exactly. 
And  through  the  glassy  portal  one  glimpsed  vistas 
of  more  leather  gleaming  with  silver  and  gold,  of 
leather  put  to  odder  and  still  more  odd  uses, 
receding  inward  far  into  the  entrails  of  London. 
Boots  alone  were  missing  from  the  menagerie; 
doubtless  an  oversight,  a  temporary  failure  of  the 
creative  ingenuity.  A  gilded  legend  on  the  win- 
dow showed  that  this  remarkable  house  had  existed 
since  1727,  and  that  the  crowned  heads  of  Europe 
availed  themselves  of  its  cleverness  in  order  to 
reign  in  leather. 

The  next  house  contradicted  this' one,  and  proved 
that  precious  stones  were  the  basis  of  a  proper 
conception  of  life,  that  life  was  impossible  from 
morn  to  eve  without  precious  stones.  Behind  the 
windows  cave  succeeded  cave  of  precious  stones 
into  the  entrails  of  London.  The  second  house,  too, 
had  been  established  in  the  eighteenth  century,  and 
it  was  written  that  the  princes  of  the  earth  fur- 
nished their  diadems  there.  And  these  two  houses 
were  squeezed  close  together,  so  that  only  a  brick 
separated  lapiz-lazuli  from  alligators.  For  in  Bond 

16 


BOND    STREET 


Street  the  wealth  exceeds  the  space.  After  pre- 
cious stones  came  orchestras  and  seats  for  theaters 
and  operas,  packed  close  against  the  stones.  And 
then  cigars  and  cigarettes,  nothing  but  cigars  and 
cigarettes,  the  largest  cigars  and  smallest  cigar- 
ettes, the  largest  cigarettes  and  smallest  cigars 
that  fancy  had  ever  fashioned.  And  then  suddenly, 
without  the  waste  of  an  inch,  life  became  a  range  of 
neckties,  and  naught  in  this  world  or  the  next  mat- 
tered except  the  color  and  knotting  of  a  necktie. 
And  then,  in  a  great  building,  with  a  mosaic  pave- 
ment in  front  of  it,  and  a  name  over  it  illustrious 
beyond  the  names  of  kings — the  frock  of  the  oda- 
lisque, sacred,  mysterious,  awful,  consummate,  in- 
effable: a  shrine  guarded  by  heroes  wearing  medals! 
And  to  placate  the  high  ministrants  of  the  shrine 
seemed  now  to  be  the  supreme  privilege  of  the 
male.  And  then  whips  and  spurs!  And  then  heads 
of  hair!  And  then  little  cakes  and  sweets,  a  rood 
of  them  vanishing  dimly  into  the  entrails  of  Lon- 
don. And  then  engravings  after  Leonardo  da 
Vinci  and  after  Mr.  Arthur  Hassall!  And  then 
leather  again!  Three  quarters  of  a  serried  mile  up, 
and  three  quarters  of  a  serried  mile  down:  all  the 
houses  depending  on  each  other  for  support,  and 
waving  to  each  other  messages  of  the  luxury  and 
splendor  of  an  unrivaled  civilization!  And  equi- 


THE   GLIMPSE 


pages  compromising  with  equipages  in  the  narrow 
defile;  and  moguls,  incas,  pro-consuls,  eunuchs, 
usurers,  sultanas,  houris,  mandarinesses,  and  seri- 
ous ladies  getting  in  and  out  of  the  equipages  and 
in  and  out  of  the  shops,  serene  in  the  consciousness 
that  there  was  nothing  more  correct  than  this,  and 
that  in  the  whole  street  not  a  single  necessary  of 
life  could  be  discovered! 


CHAPTER   V 

THE   MALADY 

NOR  did  I  see  any  necessary  of  life  in  my  slow 
and  melancholy  promenade  to  Hyde  Park 
Corner.  Into  the  Park  I  carried  my  causeless,  my 
improper  gloom,  and  also  my  grim  satisfaction  in 
the  fact  that  Ravel  had  created  a  new  beauty  which 
no  neglect  could  wither.  And  I  was  Amazed  and 
overwhelmed,  as  a  hundred  times  before,  by  the 
effulgent,  teeming,  entangled  display  of  sensual  lux* 
ury  which  the  Ladies'  Mile  presented.  Welter  of 
horses'  heads  that  a  bearing  rein  reminded  to  nod 
proudly;  gloss  of  harness  and  of  hide  and  of  panels; 
surging  of  pale  gauzes  over  cushions,  and  over  the 
bosoms  of  women  who  reclined  almost  horizontally 
indolent;  flowering  of  monstrous  hats  and  chro- 
matic expansion  of  parasols;  domination  of  auto- 
mata in  livery:  all  that  jammed  and  huddled  to- 
gether, packed  so  tight  that  when  one  hoof  moved 
all  must  move  and  a  pulsation  at  the  Achilles  statue 
was  felt  instantly  at  Albert  Gate!  And  the  crowds 
driving  other  crowds  like  loitering  sheep  in  the 

19 


THE   GLIMPSE 


sidewalks,  all  staring  and  being  stared  at,  all  affect- 
ing indifference  in  the  affliction  of  self-conscious- 
ness. And  the  battalions  couched  on  multitudinous 
chairs,  staring,  staring!  And  here  and  there  large, 
flat,  unpopulated  expanses  of  glowing  flowers, 
every  blossom  separately  tended  and  encouraged  to 
be  at  once  orderly  and  brilliant;  and  swards,  shaved 
and  ironed  every  day  into  a  fresh  perfection!  And 
then  the  great  trees,  climbing  powerfully  upward 
into  the  heights  of  the  yellow  sky,  and  there  break- 
ing into  a  rich  crown  of  heavy,  dark  foliage.  And 
beyond  the  trees,  cantering  horsemen,  and  more 
trees  and  lawns!  See  it  all  heavily  and  yet  ardently 
alive  in  a  haze  of  dust  under  the  implacable  July 
sun!  Hear,  without,  the  faint  immense  rumble  of 
London  flowing  on  its  ways,  there  where  the  houses 
form  precipices  on  which  painters  and  plasterers 
dangle ! 

I  saw  it  as  imperial,  as  still  the  crest  and  summit 
of  empire.  In  spite  of  something  called  democracy, 
and  something  else  called  finance,  the  ancient  rul- 
ing class  of  England  still  in  the  main  ruled  here. 
The  faces  and  the  gestures  behind  those  horses 
were  unmistakable  and  inimitable.  They  could  not 
be  copied  in  a  century  nor  in  two.  And  they  were 
regnant.  When  the  drawling  and  controlled  voices 
said,  with  emotion,  "  England,"  they  meant  them- 

20 


THE   MALADY 


selves.  They  were  the  excuse  for  England,  what 
England  had  to  show  for  itself  to  the  planet;  and 
England  was  still  conducted  to  the  ends  of  what 
they  considered  their  advantage.  That  which  had 
always  impressed  me  most  about  them  and  their 
parasites,  counterfeits,  and  dependents,  was  the 
enormity  of  the  physical  apparatus  with  which  they 
had  encumbered  mere  existence,  the  complexity  of 
it  and  the  costliness.  They  were  helpless  without 
slaves,  and  yet  they  had  abolished  slavery.  There 
were  ten  thousand  wheels  in  my  sight,  and  they  all 
had  to  be  washed  every  day.  And  that  was  noth- 
ing. There  were  hordes  of  women  in  my  sight  who 
must  stand  limp  every  six  hours  while  other  women 
hooked  clothes  round  their  bodies.  And  every  soul 
within  view,  even  to  the  coachman,  required  for 
every  act  of  his  life  a  special  instrument  which  it- 
self necessitated  tremendous  labor.  The  cockades 
on  shiny  hats  were  not  ready-made  till  they  reached 
the  shop  counter;  and  some  one  had  put  together 
with  an  optic  glass  the  delicate  carriage  clocks ;  and 
some  one  else  had  polished  and  stitched  the  leather 
in  which  to  inclose  them.  And  what  virgins,  or 
what  mothers,  had  bent  head  on  breast  for  a  whole 
day  and  a  whole  life  to  embroider  the  monograms 
without  which  cambric  handkerchiefs  could  not 
rightly  be  employed! 

21 


THE   GLIMPSE 


No  wonder  that  space  was  so  precious  in  Bond 
Street  and  in  the  slums !  I  saw  in  my  mind  all  the 
black-robed  girls  that  enter  Bond  Street  early  and 
leave  it  late,  "  assisting  "  all  day,  deep  in  the  en- 
trails of  London,  and  acquiring  steadily  the  virtues 
of  sweetness,  patience,  fortitude,  and  resignation. 
And  I  saw  the  workshops  crammed  with  stuffs,  and 
seamers  and  seamstresses,  and  inspectors  ever  aris- 
ing and  descending  to  insure  that  death  was  not 
therein  outrageously  rampant.  And  I  saw  another 
ring  of  homes,  where  a  gross  of  boxes  were  made 
for  a  farthing,  and  two  shirts  for  ten  farthings,  and 
where  a  woman  might  work  for  a  hundred  hours 
and  not  earn  enough  to  buy  a  porterhouse  steak. 
And  I  saw  also  a  vast  foreign  army  muttering  every 
language  but  English  in  the  basements  and  attics  of 
hotels  and  restaurants,  an  army  recruited  from 
mountain  sides  and  lake  shores  to  cook  food  and 
put  it  into  the  very  mouths  of  the  oligarchy.  And 
I  saw  the  factoried  provinces,  under  smoke,  and 
drilled  to  labor  more  ruthlessly  than  if  the  factories 
had  been  barracks.  And  I  saw  the  coal  mine;  and 
the  bakery.  And  then  again  I  saw  Hyde  Park. 

"  How  crude  and  facile  all  these  contrasts  and 
juxtapositions  are !  "  I  thought. 

And  they  were.  But  they  surged  irrepressibly  up, 
out  of  my  melancholy,  and  reacted  on  it,  increas- 

22 


THE   MALADY 


ing  it.  Yet  I  think  my  melancholy  might  have  been 
cured  if  I  could  have  seen  any  happiness  inscribed 
on  the  faces  that  passed  before  me.  I  was  ready  to 
regard  suffering  as  a  phenomenon,  scientifically; 
and  I  would  have  pardoned,  would  have  justified,  the 
cruelty,  the  negligence,  the  egotism  of  these  pro- 
cessional persons,  if  only  they  had  got  value  for 
their  fierce  deeds,  if  only  they  had  achieved  some 
sort  of  bliss.  They  had  not.  They  had  failed.  They 
were  all  sad.  They  had  the  sadness  of  brutes,  who 
know  not  why  they  are  sad.  All  the  injustice,  all 
the  oppression,  all  the  sighing  of  the  victims,  was 
wasted.  The  rulers  had  done  nothing  but  compli- 
cate their  lives  in  an  endless  ritual  of  physical  gross- 
ness,  which  was  entirely  futile.  They  weighed  their 
bodies  on  a  machine  every  morning,  and  thought  to 
be  happy!  They  were  still,  with  the  heroic  ob- 
stinacy of  ignorance,  searching  for  happiness  where 
it  was  impossible  that  happiness  should  be.  Their 
case  was  as  desperate  as  the  most  desperate. 

Nor  was  the  case  of  the  enlightened  any  better. 
The  faces  under  the  Rutland  dome,  surrounded  and 
caressed  by  beauty,  fine  faces  many  of  them,  made 
fine  by  a  deliberate  and  long  withdrawal  from  that 
which  is  gross  and  unseemly,  spiritualized  by  mys- 
tic contacts  with  the  immaterial — were  these  faces 
less  mournful?  Was  my  own? 

23 


THE   GLIMPSE 


I  was  forty-two  years  of  age,  and  in  possession 
of  what  I  had  all  my  life  up  to  about  forty,  instinc- 
tively and  without  questioning,  considered  to  be  the 
essentials  of  happiness.  When  young  and  harassed 
by  the  gaps  in  my  equipment  and  the  imperfections 
of  my  technic,  I  used  to  say  to  myself :  "  If  only  I 
could  achieve  some  really  large  and  important  criti- 
cal work,  full  of  knowledge  and  also  of  emotion,  I 
should  be  content — content  with  the  mere  achieve- 
ment." But  when  after  ten  years  of  devotion,  I  fin- 
ished "  The  Development  of  European  Music  "  to 
the  scale  of  three  large  volumes,  and  knew  that  it 
was  good,  my  satisfaction  did  not  endure  a  day,  not 
an  hour.  I  said:  "This  must  be  published.  This 
must  be  recognized  for  what  it  is.  And  I  must  be 
admitted  to  be  what  I  surely  am.  Then  I  shall  be 
content."  And  I  could  not  find  a  publisher  for  three 
years.  But  when  I  found  a  publisher — and  among 
the  most  august — and  the  work  was  issued,  and  ac- 
cepted as  a  masterpiece  and  unique,  and  genuinely 
bought  and  sold  in  addition  to  being  discussed  at 
dinner  tables,  and  translated  into  German,  French, 
Italian,  and  even  Russian,  and  scarcely  a  day  closed 
on  which  I  was  not  the  subject  of  some  truly  dis- 
tinguished flattery — my  satisfaction  did  not  en- 
dure a  week.  And  I  said  to  myself:  "  Is  that  all? 
Is  this  all  it  is?  "  And  bent  myself  to  another 

24 


THE  MALADY 


work,  as  it  were  to  a  forlorn  hope.  And  when  my 
half-brother  died  in  Indianapolis,  and  the  sudden 
ownership  of  three  hundred  thousand  dollars' 
worth  of  interest-yielding  valuables  rescued  me 
generously  and  forever  from  the  annoyances  due 
to  an  insufficient  and  unsure  income,  I  was  no 
nearer  content,  though  I  could  give  myself  with 
much  more  completeness  to  the  study  of  beauty.  I 
had  the  consciousness  of  immense  and  successful 
endeavor,  of  being  unsurpassed  in  my  sphere;  I 
had  fame;  I  had  wealth.  I  had,  above  all,  my 
senses  exquisitely  trained  to  the  perception  of 
beauty.  In  brief,  my  ambitions  were  realized,  and 
my  desires  were  appeased,  except  the  vague  and 
paramount  longing,  now  numb,  now  acute,  for  hap- 
piness. I  perceived  that  I  had  never,  no,  never, 
been  happy,  nor  made  an  approach  toward  happi- 
ness. I  had  mistaken  the  road  to  happiness.  I  was 
far  on  the  wrong  path,  and  could  not  trace  the 
right  one  on  any  map.  Nevertheless,  my  health 
was  sound,  and  remorse  for  sins  was  not  among  my 
discomforts. 

I  pitied  the  tragic  haughtiness  of  the  human  be- 
ings in  the  spectacle  before  me,  in  that  they  sought 
happiness  on  the  material  plane  instead  of  the  spir- 
itual. But  had  I  found  it  on  the  spiritual?  I  was 
the  saddest  soul  in  Hyde  Park;  and  the  very  cru- 

25 


THE  GLIMPSE 


dity  of  my  revolt  shocked  me  into  a  darker  melan- 
choly. I  could  not  envisage  the  whole  problem. 
I  knew  that  everything  I  thought  in  relation  to 
the  problem  was  crude.  I  talked  sardonically  of 
the  oligarchy — and  I  belonged  to  it!  The  roots 
of  my  daily  life  sprang  from  it.  I,  too,  sucked  the 
blood  of  the  humble.  .  .  .  Sell  all  that  I  had  and 
give  to  the  poor,  then?  No,  my  crudity  was  not 
so  crass  as  that.  I  knew  that  I  could  only  disso- 
ciate myself  from  the  universal  crime  by  suicide, 
and  I  had  neither  the  wish  nor  the  will  for  suicide. 
Never  had  I  felt  the  ravage  of  my  malady  so 
keenly  as  on  that  gorgeous  and  spectacular  after- 
noon. And  the  immediate  cause  of  the  last  and 
worst  crisis?  Nothing  but  the  failure  of  a  select 
gathering  to  respond,  upon  the  instant,  to  the  ob- 
scure appeal  of  a  new  form  and  revelation  of 
beauty!  From  such  a  common  disappointment  I 
had  passed,  by  swift,  illogical  stages,  into  an 
overwhelming  sense  of  the  universal  absurd  and 
mournful  futility  of  things,  a  mood  against  which 
my  faith  in  that  beauty  grimly  battled  in  vain.  The 
inadequacy  of  the  cause  proved  only  that  my  mal- 
ady was  gaining  on  me;  perhaps  it  was  gaining 
upon  the  world.  And  my  malady  was  the  cele- 
brated malady  of  existence. 


CHAPTER   VI 

THE   RETREAT 

PALACE  COURT  MANSIONS:  this  feudal 
name  added  to  the  monetary  value  of  the 
premises  where  I  abode.  It  is  singular  how  the  gov- 
erning class  likes  to  pretend  by  mendacious  street 
signs  that  it  is  servile.  Palace  Court  Mansions  were 
not  within  a  thousand  yards  of  a  palace.  Nor  were 
they  mansions,  but  rather  in  design  a  barracks. 
In  other  respects  they  were  well  enough,  dignified 
in  architecture,  and  situate  in  a  fine,  tree-shaded 
square.  Mysterious  haunt — full  of  mysteries!  In 
the  gloom  of  a  marble  entrance  hall,  a  scornful,  fat 
janizary  whose  cap-touching  was  the  merest  per- 
functory concession  to  our  prejudices,  stalked 
about  in  a  shining  uniform.  I  had  never  seen  that 
janizary  do  anything  but  stalk  about.  A  tiny  boy, 
dressed  in  a  ludicrous  exact  imitation  of  the  jani- 
zary, ushered  me  into  an  electric-lighted  box,  and 
the  box  and  the  boy  and  I  shot  upward  with  dis- 
concerting swiftness.  The  boy  spent  all  his  days 
in  swiftly  shooting  up  and  down  in  the  box:  we  had 
caught  him,  and  thus  we  were  preparing  him  for 
3  27 


THE  GLIMPSE 


the  struggles  and  responsibilities  of  manhood.  I 
was  thrown  out  of  the  box  on  to  a  hanging  gallery 
in  front  of  a  door  numbered  450.  To  me  that 
door  was  different  from  all  the  other  doors.  It  was 
sacred.  It  was  my  door.  When  with  my  key  I 
opened  it,  and  disappeared,  shutting  it  behind  me, 
none  might  follow,  not  even  the  august  inhabi- 
tants of  palaces.  Through  that  door  I  passed  from 
the  hard,  neutral,  meaningless  publicity  of  the  echo- 
ing gallery  suddenly  into  an  intimate  calm  seclusion, 
where  every  object,  every  form,  every  color,  was 
arranged  to  express  and  extend  my  individuality. 
As  soon  as  I  had  closed  the  door  I  could  hear  the 
soft  ticking  of  a  grandfather's  clock  that  in  the 
square  vestibule  marked  not  time,  but  eternity. 
Its  rosewood  matched  the  chairs,  which,  never  sat 
on,  reposed  in  idleness  on  a  carpet  as  old  and  dis- 
tinguished as  themselves.  On  three  white  walls  of 
the  vestibule  were  three  drawings  by  Henry  Ospo- 
vat.  A  tall,  thin  girl  was  in  the  act  of  putting  a 
brown-paper  parcel  on  a  small  rosewood  table  that 
stood  between  the  two  chairs.  She  lifted  her  head. 
"  Nice  and  cool  here,  Marion,"  I  said  genially, 
"  compared  to  the  outside!  "  If  my  nature  had  not 
been  so  secretive,  I  might  have  said  to  her,  instead: 
"  Fellow-creature,  what  is  your  own  personal  solu- 
tion of  this  last  enigma?  " 

28 


THE   RETREAT 


She  smiled  primly,  defensively. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  in  a  poor  little  voice  that  indicated 
a  feeble  constitution. 

She  wore  dark  spectacles  over  a  salient  nose.  It 
had  been  a  question  whether,  with  these  disfigur- 
ing spectacles,  she  could  be  allowed  the  privilege 
of  gaining  a  livelihood  in  Palace  Court  Mansions. 
However,  right  feeling,  reenforced  by  the  difficulty 
of  replacing  her,  had  conquered.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  her  shoulders  stooped.  She  donned  blue  and 
white  in  the  morning  and  black  and  white  in 
the  afternoon,  and  always  there  was  a  small 
white  linen  blossom  in  her  pale  hair,  called 
a  cap,  though  it  was  not  a  cap.  Once  she  had  for- 
gotten to  crown  herself  with  this  symbol,  and,  per- 
ceiving the  omission  in  a  mirror  in  my  dining 
room,  had  blushed  red  and  ran  gawkily  out.  This 
was  the  only  occasion  on  which  I  saw  her  under 
the  influence  of  deep  emotion.  A  girl  not  physi- 
cally seductive.  As  to  the  qualities  of  her  mind,  I 
knew  little.  She  had  been  living  in  my  apart- 
ments for  months;  in  fact,  she  appeared  to  be  al- 
ways there,  to  be  permanently  fixed  in  them  fifty 
feet  above  the  level  of  the  earth.  But  I  did  not 
even  know  whether  she  worshiped  one  god  or 
three,  whether  she  loved  or  was  loved,  whether  she 
was  in  happiness  or  despair.  I  did  not  even  know 

29 


THE  GLIMPSE 


her  surname.  All  I  knew  was  that  she  was  called 
Marion  and  wore  spectacles,  and  that  in  a  general 
way  she  must  not  address  me  until  I  addressed  her, 
and  must  never  contradict  me,  and  she  had  a  com- 
panion more  recondite  than  herself.  A  being  of 
whom  I  caught  glimpses  perhaps  once  a  week, 
whose  aim  seemed  to  be  to  recede  always  before 
me. 

"  What  is  that  parcel?  "  I  asked. 

Marion  held  it  up. 

"  It's  just  come,  sir." 

I  guessed  from  the  label  what  it  was. 

"  Will  you  kindly  unwrap  it  and  put  it  on  my 
study  table?  " 

"  Yes,  sir.  There's  a  telephone  message  for 
you,  sir/' 

"  Thanks.  You  might  put  this  music  on  the 
piano,  will  you?  And  take  my  hat." 

She  disburdened  me  and  noiselessly  disappeared 
behind  a  curtain.  I  went  to  the  telephone,  behind 
another  curtain,  and  read  in  the  dim  light  on  a 
sheet  of  paper  which  lay  upon  the  desk:  "  Mrs. 
Dean  telephones  from  the  Ladies'  Athenaeum  Club 
that  she  will  come  to  dinner  to-night."  Mrs.  Dean 
was  my  sister,  a  widow,  ten  years  younger  than 
myself. 

I  instantly  murmured: 
30 


THE   RETREAT 


"  Well,  then,  I'm  damned  if  I  don't  ask  Johnnie 
to  come,  too! " 

And  presently,  with  the  disc  at  my  ear,  I  was 
waiting,  staring  about  me  idly.  Except  for  the 
ticking  of  the  great  clock  the  silence  was  complete. 
Above  me  and  below  me,  to  right  and  to  left  of  me, 
groups  of  lives  pulsated.  The  waves  of  the  im- 
mense sea  of  London  dashed  against  the  walls  of 
my  fortress;  but  within  the  fortress,  which  was  also 
a  cloister,  my  egoism  had  established  silence  and 
calm. 

And  then  there  was  a  vibration  of  the  disc. 

"  Is  Captain  Hulse  at  home?  I'm  Morrice 
Loring,"  I  said  to  the  lifeless  metal  before  my 
mouth,  just  as  if  I  had  been  speaking  to  a  human 
being. 

"  Is  that  you,  Morrice?  "  a  small,  resonant  voice 
said  in  my  left  ear,  after  a  long  pause  of  clock 
ticking.  It  was  the  voice  of  Johnnie  Hulse,  trav- 
eling to  me  over  miles  of  roofs  or  under  miles  of 
pavements,  circuitously  but  infallibly  guided. 

"  I  say,  Johnnie,  where  are  you  dining  to-night?  " 
I  answered. 

"  Nowhere.  At  the  club.  I  don't  know,"  said 
the  faint,  dehumanized,  uncanny  whisper  in  my 
ear. 

"  Well,  you  must  come  here,  then." 
31 


THE  GLIMPSE 


"  I  don't  think  I'll  come  to-night,  old  man/'  my 
ear  heard. 

"  Oh,  that  be  hanged!    You  must." 

"  Why?  "  persisted  the  disc. 

"Never  mind  why!  You  must  come.  Seven- 
thirty.  Good-by." 

I  dropped  the  apparatus  into  its  attendant  claw. 
And  as  the  clock  resumed  its  empire  over  my 
abode,  I  gazed  absently  at  the  senseless  telephone, 
which  at  any  instant  might  summon  me  to  it  again 
with  its  peremptory  ring. 

In  the  drawing-room,  Ravel's  "  Miroirs  "  were 
already  on  the  piano,  placed  there  by  silent,  invisi- 
ble hands!  Home  of  miracles!  I  had  only  to  wish, 
and  the  wish  was  fulfilled.  If  I  wished  my  dinner, 
lo!  it  appeared  in  the  dining  room,  various,  co- 
pious, served  with  the  complexity  and  the  solem- 
nity of  a  mass  I  knew  not  how,  by  what  machinery 
and  processes.  And  in  this  retreat  the  matter  of 
visual  offense  had  never  been  allowed  to  enter. 
Where  my  eye  rested,  there  it  rested  on  beautiful 
things — engravings,  furniture,  wall  papers,  car- 
pets. The  view  from  the  wide  window  consisted  of 
nature's  elm  trees,  gigantic.  Around  me  were 
bookcases  behind  whose  glass  the  rich  coloring  of 
multitudinous  books  of  four  centuries  mingled  with 
reflections  of  objects  in  the  room.  Service,  fine 

32 


THE   RETREAT 


food,  the  instruments  of  aesthetic  and  intellectual 
pleasure,  satisfied  ambition,  the  consciousness  of 
achievement,  fame,  health,  knowledge,  friends, 
freedom,  silence,  calm;  neither  money  nor  long  en- 
deavor could  purchase  more  than  I  possessed  of 
the  means  of  happiness. 

I  sat  down,  curious  to  decipher  the  first  of  the 
"  Miroirs."  And  the  sound  of  the  piano  awoke  the 
enchanted  stillness  of  the  drawing-room.  But  I 
could  not  read  that  music  at  sight.  It  was  music 
that  would  yield  to  humble  study  but  not  to  mas- 
terful intentions.  There  is  music — and  great  mu- 
sic— in  the  execution  of  which  the  courage  of  the 
soul  may  in  some  sort  atone  for  the  stiffness  of  the 
fingers.  But  Ravel's  music  was  not  such.  To  yearn 
forth  hints  at  it  was  worse  than  useless — disastrous. 
It  demanded  wrists  and  hands  as  a  sine  qua  non. 
And  actually  I  fancied  for  a  moment  that  if  I  could 
have  been  a  virtuoso  on  the  piano,  I  should  have 
been  happy!  .  .  . 

Silence  fell  again.  I  went  into  my  study,  an- 
other large,  austere,  and  beautiful  chamber,  with 
more  books,  shabbier  than  the  books  in  the  draw- 
ing-room, the  earlier  harvests  of  twenty  years  of 
collecting.  On  the  table  were  the  contents  of  the 
just-arrived  parcel,  placed  there  by  invisible,  si- 
lent hands:  "The  Golden  Remains  of  the  ever- 

33 


THE    GLIMPSE 


memorable  John  Hales.  Second  edition,  with  addi- 
tions, also  letters  and  expresses  concerning  the 
Synod  of  Dort,  not  before  printed.  London, 
1673."  Folded  within  the  cover  was  a  bill  of  fif- 
teen and  sixpence  for  binding  it  in  half  calf.  A 
curious  quarto!  I  had  had  it  for  years.  I  had  not 
read  it;  I  never  should  read.it.  Yet  I  loved  it,  and 
the  thought  that  at  last  it  was  worthily  bound  af- 
forded me  distinct  pleasure.  I  put  the  bill  into  a 
letter  basket,  and,  as  I  negligently  turned  over  the 
fragile  yellow  pages,  I  tried  to  decide  in  which 
bookcase  and  upon  which  shelf  a  place  could  be 
discovered  for  this  treasure. 

And  as  I  pondered,  there  came  from  the  next 
room  the  sound  of  a  woman  singing  lightly  a  few 
bars  of  melody  from  Gluck's  "  Armida."  I  lis- 
tened, startled,  and  scarcely  aware  why  I  was  star- 
tled. The  song  ceased.  I  opened  a  door  in  the 
wall,  and  passed  into  the  long  and  rather  narrow 
bedroom  whose  windows,  giving  on  an  inner  quad- 
rangle, were  of  ground  glass,  so  that  that  room, 
more  completely  even  than  the  others,  seemed  to 
be  cut  off  from  the  world.  Twin  Hepplewhite  ma- 
hogany beds,  covered  with  purple,  were  the  prin- 
cipal feature  of  it.  Over  a  chair  hung  a  white  skirt 
frothed  with  lace.  On  one  of  a  pair  of  Regency 
silver  candlesticks  which  stood  on  a  chest  of  draw- 

34 


THE   RETREAT 


ers  was  perched  rakishly  a  large  yellow  hat  trail- 
ing feathery  plumage.  A  man's  headgear  on  a  can- 
dlestick, his  pantaloons  cast  carelessly  on  a  chair — 
these  phenomena  would  fatally  mar  the  effect  of 
any  interior;  but  that  skirt  and  that  hat  achieved 
the  final  beauty  of  the  bedroom,  at  the  same  time 
humanizing  it.  And  I,  who  could  appreciate  this, 
could  yet  not  compass  happiness!  The  woman 
stood  with  her  back  to  me,  opposite  the  toilet 
table,  slim,  straight,  and  tall.  She  was  in  under- 
skirt and  corset;  the  corset  matched  the  under- 
skirt. Her  bare  arms  were  raised  above  the  pale 
shoulders,  the  elbows  pointed  sharply  outward, 
and  the  curved  fingers  met  over  a  band  of  hair  on 
the  top  of  her  head.  In  the  toilet  mirror  I  could 
see  the  image  of  a  handsome,  smiling,  and  slightly 
roguish  face,  the  face  of  a  woman  of  thirty-odd 
who  has  come  to  definite  conclusions  about  life. 


CHAPTER    VII 

BIRTH    AND   DEATH    OF   LOVE 

I  HAD  met  this  lady  for  the  first  time— that  is 
to  say,  I  had  effectively  met  her  for  the  first 
time — ten  years  before  in  the  Rue  Montagne  de 
la  Cotir,  Brussels.  She  was  sitting  in  an  open 
carriage  behind  a  pair  of  horses  and  a  coachman. 
It  was  a  bright,  cool,  and  windy  day  after  Easter. 
The  vehicle  stood  outside  one  of  the  numerous  jew- 
elers' shops  in  the  narrow  and  steep  street  of  lux- 
uries. I  on  the  busy  pavement,  and  she  leaning 
over  with  a  certain  quality  of  eagerness — we 
talked  for  a  few  moments  about  the  concert  at 
which  we  had  been  formally  presented  to  each 
other  a  few  weeks  earlier.  I  told  her  that  I  had 
really  been  wanting  to  meet  her  again.  And  she 
said:  "And  do  you  suppose  I  haven't  been  want- 
ing to  meet  you  again?  "  She  said  with  intense 
conviction  in  her  eyes  that  my  musical  criticism 
was  infinitely  superior  to  any  other  in  London  or 
elsewhere,  that  it  had  always  fascinated  her,  and 
that  she  had  been  wondering  whether  we  ever 

36 


BIRTH    AND    DEATH    OF    LOVE 

should  meet  again  so  that  she  might  hear  me  talk 
about  music.  I  saw  myself  through  the  eyes  of 
that  young  creature.  Her  eyes,  her  lips,  her  smile 
were  all  inviting  me  as  she  leaned  over  the  side  of 
the  carriage.  And  her  bearing  was  so  candid,  so 
ingenuous!  She  was  fair,  pretty,  slim,  elegant, 
intelligent,  enthusiastic.  We  were  in  a  foreign  city. 
The  encounter  had  romance  in  it,  had  in  it  some- 
thing which  transcended  ordinary  agreeable  ex- 
perience. In  a  pause  she  warned  me  that  I  was 
not  to  imagine  that  the  carriage  was  hers.  And 
she  explained  that  she  was  in  Brussels  as  the  guest 
of  a  middle-aged  couple  whose  daughter  had  been 
a  fellow-student  of  hers  at  the  Royal  College  of 
Music,  and  that  her  hosts,  who  treated  her  with  in- 
credible kindness  and  generosity,  were  at  the  mo- 
ment in  the  jeweler's  shop.  It  seemed  that  they 
had  carried  her  off  from  London  by  mere  force. 
Unfortunately,  they  were  not  a  bit  interested  in  mu- 
sic; they  were,  however,  nice,  homely  people,  with 
plenty  of  money  and  a  capacity  for  enjoying  them- 
selves. Whereupon  I  remarked  that  I  assumed 
they  could  not,  then,  be  specially  excited  about 
the  Gluck  Festival  performances  at  the  Brussels 
Opera,  which  I  had  been  sent  from  London  to  criti- 
cise. She  had  only  the  vaguest  idea  of  the  Gluck 
performances,  the  modest  posters  of  the  Theatre 

37 


THE   GLIMPSE 


de  la  Monnaie  not  having  arrested  her  eyes. 
Besides,  as  she  said,  while  with  her  friends  she  had 
to  cease  to  think  about  music.  But  as  I  talked,  her 
interest  in  Gluck  became  feverish.  "  Wouldn't  you 
like  to  hear  '  Armida  '  to-night?  "  I  asked  her. 
And  she  answered  with  an  affirmative  that  was  pas- 
sionate. "  Well,"  I  said,  "  will  you  come  with 
me?  I'm  here  for  two  papers  and  I  shall  have  two 
seats."  She  said:  "  Not  really?  "  Her  eyes  danced. 
I  asked  her  if  she  thought  her  friends  would  be 
shocked  if  I  invited  her  to  dine  with  me  before 
the  performance.  And  she  replied:  "Of  course 
not!  They're  American,  you  know.  They'll  only 
be  too  glad  for  me  to  enjoy  myself."  I  said: 
"Then,  will  you?"  And  I  stared  hard  at  her.  She 
faintly  blushed.  Then  her  friends  came  bustling 
and  talkative  out  of  the  shop,  bowed  forth  by  a 
little  shopman  who  responded  to  their  broad 
American  in  Belgian  English.  I  was  introduced, 
and  had  the  happy  idea  of  mentioning  my  half- 
brother  in  Indianapolis.  She  had  been  right.  They 
were  quite  delighted  at  the  prospect  of  an  even- 
ing's special  enjoyment  for  their  guest. 

I  spent  an  afternoon  of  wearing  anticipation, 
nervous  expectancy;  one  of  those  afternoons  when 
the  fingers  of  clocks  and  watches  will  not  move. 
Partly  to  pass  the  time,  and  partly  because  the  idea 

38 


BIRTH    AND    DEATH    OF    LOVE 

of  work  in  the  evening  while  she  was  with  me  was 
intolerable  and  even  inconceivable,  I  prepared  in 
advance  as  well  as  I  could  my  telegram  to  my  daily 
paper.  I  can  say  that  I  have  known  the  torturing 
fever  of  a  grand  passion,  and  it  was  on  that  day 
that  I  was  first  seized. 

We  dined  at  the  little  Etoile,  then  as  now  the 
best  restaurant  in  Europe.  She  was  in  black  crepe, 
'decollete;  a  large  artificial  rose  in  her  hair.  Ver- 
milion lips;  rather  thin,  but  truly  vermilion! 
Twitching  nostrils!  Humid,  glinting  eyes!  On  her 
bosom  rose  and  fell  a  blazing  diamond  cross,  a  gift 
from  those  impulsive  Americans;  they  had  been 
buying  it  that  morning;  hence  it  was  that  they  had 
suggested  her  remaining  alone  in  the  carriage.  The 
foot  of  the  cross  was  nearly  hidden  behind  the  top 
of  her  dress.  The  great  line  of  Swinburne  sprang 
into  my  mind.  Ah,  deep  division  of  prodigious 
breasts!  She  dropped  her  wrap  behind  her  on  the 
old-fashioned  velvet  seat,  exposing  her  shoulders, 
bravely  naked.  And  she  straightened  her  shoul- 
ders with  a  proud  gesture,  as  if  saying:  "  I  am  the 
desire  of  the  world."  And  at  the  same  time  her 
eyes  were  surrendering  to  me.  They  said:  "  See 
how  I  trust  myself  to  you.  Fragile,  I  am  abso- 
lutely in  your  masculine  power,  and  you  are  capa- 
ble of  being  brutal.  I  like  my  peril."  She  gave 

39 


THE   GLIMPSE 


herself  a  delicious  little  shake  as  I  poured  out  the 
wine.  Filling  of  a  glass — sacred  and  symbolic  act, 
beautiful  in  itself,  and  how  exciting!  I  can  feel 
again  the  fine  thinness  of  the  crystal,  the  delicacy 
of  the  china,  the  heat  of  the  restaurant,  and 
the  flattering,  curious  gaze  of  other  diners  con- 
tinually on  me  and  my  conquest  in  the  small 
room. 

"  What  a  chance!  "  I  thought.  "  If  I  had  hap- 
pened to  take  a  different  street,  this  stupendous 
miracle,  this  splendid  and  terrifying  enchantment, 
would  never  have  been!  "  The  conception  of  the 
hazards  of  life  made  me  sick,  with  a  kind  of  retro- 
spective apprehension. 

We  could  not  loiter  over  the  dinner.  Nor  did 
we  wish  to  do  so,  for  we  were  burning  for  the 
opera,  for  the  agitation  of  music.  "  It's  a  fine 
night,"  I  said.  "  Shall  we  walk  to  the  theater?  It's 
close  by."  In  those  days  and  for  years  afterwards,  I 
had  to  count  every  shilling.  "  Oh,  I  should  love  to 
walk!  "  she  exclaimed  with  eager  assent.  And  she 
confided  herself  to  me  for  the  passage  of  the  dim 
streets.  I  had  the  illusion  of  owning  her;  she 
walked  close,  close  by  me.  And  in  the  theater 
she  blossomed  anew,  and  more  magically.  The 
audience  was  what  is  called  "  brilliant,"  and  for 
Brussels  it  was  extraordinarily  brilliant.  The 

40 


BIRTH    AND    DEATH    OF    LOVE 

Gluck  Festival  had  the  nature  of  a  solemnity.  It 
was  patronized  by  the  press  of  Europe,  and  by 
princes.  The  autocrat  of  Carlsruhe  was  conduct- 
ing, and  the  operatic  stars  of  Paris,  Berlin,  and 
Munich  had  consented,  in  homage  to  Gluck,  to 
suffer  the  autocrat's  tyranny  for  a  week.  In  the 
confusion,  Leopold,  enthroned  in  the  royal  box, 
obviously  took  himself  for  an  enlightened  patron 
of  the  arts  and  the  sole  restorer  of  Gluck's  glory. 
"  I  hadn't  a  notion  it  would  be  like  this!  "  she  mur- 
mured, glancing  round  about  at  the  brilliance. 
Her  vitality  seemed  to  increase  even  more,  and  she 
gave  that  little  thrill  of  the  shoulders.  What 
chiefly  impressed  me  was  the  intensity  of  her  appe- 
tite for  pleasure.  She  bathed  in  it  voluptuously. 
And  the  candor  of  her  joy  was  childlike.  I  said  to 
myself,  "  Why  not?  "  All  the  evening  we  were 
close  together.  Her  responsiveness,  her  receptive- 
ness,  her  pliancy  were  astounding.  On  every  ar- 
tistic point  she  not  only  tried  to  agree  with  me; 
she  not  only  persuaded  herself  that  she  agreed  with 
me ;  she  did  actually  and  genuinely  agree  with  me. 
She  thought  and  felt  through  me,  by  me.  She 
reflected  me  more  quickly  than  a  mirror.  She 
drank  me  up.  She  became  me.  It  was  a  tremen- 
dous, an  overwhelming  experience.  And  beneath 
the  vivid  music  and  the  spectacle  and  the  cluster- 


THE  GLIMPSE 


ing  radiance  of  chandeliers,  beneath  the  pungent 
brilliance  of  the  crowd,  beneath  our  excited  talk 
of  music  and  our  careful  manners  to  each  other — 
my  deference  and  her  delicacy — beneath  all  this 
froth  rolled  the  deep  rivers  of  our  desire,  silent  but 
ruthless.  Not  art,  not  spirit,  not  intellect,  but  our 
bodies  were  the  fundamental  and  grave  fact.  Not 
our  mouths  but  our  eyes,  contradicting  our 
mouths,  said  the  true,  paramount  things.  Her 
fine,  courageous  sensuality  (conveyed  who  could 
explain  how?)  inspired  me  with  an  exultant  respect 
for  her  and  for  that  of  which  we  always  endeavor 
to  be  ashamed.  It  effected  for  me  a  transmutation 
of  all  values.  My  intellect  stood  still  in  awe,  as  be- 
fore a  terrific  revelation. 

During  the  last  entr'acte  I  had  to  cross  the 
square  to  the  telegraph  office.  She  asked  appeal- 
ingly  if  she  might  not  go  with  me.  Going  to  the 
telegraph  office,  to  help  to  dispatch  a  press  tele- 
gram, had  for  her  the  quality  of  an  adventure.  So 
we  went  together,  And  she  stood  exquisitely  out 
of  place,  fragile,  defenseless,  and  daring,  with 
parted  smiling  lips,  near  the  grille,  while  I  per- 
formed a  brief  but  astonishing  feat  of  concentra- 
tion in  the  high-roofed,  echoing,  dim-lit  bureau. 
This  memory  of  the  night  is  as  bright  as  any  I 
have. 

42 


BIRTH    AND    DEATH    OF    LOVE 

About  midnight  we  were  clattering  in  a  closed 
fiacre  up  the  hill  to  the  Hotel  Bellevue.  We  had 
little  speech,  but  I  asked  her  what  she  meant  to 
do  on  the  morrow,  and  she  said  that  she  really  must 
go  to  the  cathedral.  The  rendezvous  was  arranged 
at  once,  and  quite  simply.  As  the  horse  walked 
doggedly  up  the  last  bit  of  steep  into  the  Place, 
I  said  to  her  with  an  assumption  of  negligence  that 
I  didn't  even  know  what  her  Christian  name  was. 
"  My  proper  name  is  Iris,"  she  said.  "  But  I  hate 
it.  I  always  call  myself  Inez,  and  so  do  my 
friends." 

Inez! 

It  was  one  of  those  felicities  that  women  have 
sometimes. 

After  I  had  left  her,  with  the  correct  ceremo- 
nies, in  the  portico  of  the  hotel,  I  stood  still,  liter- 
ally amazed,  in  the  middle  of  the  lofty  avenue, 
where  the  electric  cars  were  still  gliding  in  clangor 
and  light.  I  thought  of  how  near  she  had  been  to 
me  in  the  fiacre.  '''  This  is  the  most  marvelous 
thing  that  ever  happened,"  I  muttered  to  myself, 
rapt,  absorbed  in  an  ecstatic  conviction  of  the  mar- 
vel. I  wanted  intensely  to  rush  into  the  hotel  and 
drag  her  out  from  its  protection.  But  I  had  ir- 
revocably lost  her  till  the  morrow.  I  kept  saying 
to  myself:  "  Why!  She's  absolutely  wonderful,  and 
4  43 


THE  GLIMPSE 


I  could  simply  do  what  I  like  with  her!  I  could 
simply  do  what  I  like  with  her!  " 

I  passed  a  horrible  night  of  longing  for  the  fu- 
ture, of  fear  for  the  future.  I  neither  slept  nor 
tried  to  sleep.  The  next  morning  I  saw  her  in  the 
twilit  and  pompous  immensity  of  the  cathedral. 
She  was  more  Inez  than  ever,  and  more  mine  than 
ever.  No  concealment  in  those  eyes.  In  crossing 
the  nave  she  bowed  to  the  great  altar.  This  startled 
me.  I  asked  her  with  due  gravity  of  tone  if  she 
was  a  Roman  Catholic.  She  whispered:  "  No,  but 
I  often  feel  I  should  like  to  be.  My  friends  here 
are."  Her  eyes  were  moist,  and  she  looked  at  me 
with  a  gaze  in  which  desire  and  devotion  dignified 
each  other.  I  was  excruciatingly  conscious  of  the 
charm  of  her  mortal  frame,  of  her  yielding  femin- 
inity, as  we  stood  in  the  dark  vista  of  the  aisle. 

Then  six  days  of  torture,  six  days  of  fevered  idle- 
ness, succeeded  before  I  could  see  her  again.  I 
saw  her  next  in  London,  at  her  rooms  in  Claren- 
don Road,  off  Holland  Park  Avenue.  It  was 
night.  Her  little  drawing-room  was  agreeably  ar- 
ranged as  a  frame  for  her.  Its  chief  article  of  fur- 
niture was  a  grand  piano.  She  gave  lessons  on  the 
piano.  She  read  for  me  music  which  I  had 
brought,  and  showed  a  highly  unusual  facility. 
And  her  intelligence  was  extraordinarily  alert  and 

44 


BIRTH    AND     DEATH    OF    LOVE 

receptive.  It  was  admitted  and  agreed  between  us 
then  that  we  were  indispensable  to  each  other. 
Words  were  exchanged,  but  they  were  few  and  un- 
necessary. The  fact  that  we  were  indispensable  to 
each  other  was  too  glaringly  patent  to  need  articu- 
late statement.  I  kissed  her.  I  held  her.  We  were 
solitary  and  secure  in  the  tiny  flat,  under  the 
shaded  lamp,  and  she  the  image  of  modest  acquies- 
cence. And  my  unconquerable  conventional  pride 
surged  up  and  took  control  of  me.  "  No!  "  it  said. 
'  You  aren't  going  to  have  any  complications  in 
your  life;  you  aren't  going  to  be  at  the  mercy  of 
accidents;  you  aren't  going  to  do  anything  silly." 
I  left  her  immaculate.  The  next  morning  I  was 
at  the  office  of  the  registrar  of  marriages.  "  She  is 
everything  that  one  could  want  in  a  woman!  "  I 
reflected,  dazed  by  the  very  stroke  of  my  luck.  But 
if  she  had  had  nothing  desirable  but  that  which  the 
eye  can  see,  I  should  still  have  been  at  the  office  of 
the  registrar  of  marriages.  Her  gifts  made  no  real 
difference.  She  had  to  be  mine,  at  any  price.  I 
suggested  that  the  marriage  should  be  kept  strictly 
secret  till  June,  and  that  in  June  our  friends  should 
be  allowed  to  suppose  that  it  had  but  just  occurred, 
so  that  we  might  be  spared  the  tedium  of  friendly 
remarks  upon  our  precipitancy,  and  so  that  our 
characters  for  prudence  might  remain  intact.  She 

45 


THE   GLIMPSE 


was  delighted  with  the  scheme.  After  three  weeks, 
of  which  I  counted  every  interminable  hour,  we 
duly  figured  before  the  registrar.  And  she  was 
mine,  surreptitiously,  furtively,  with  exciting,  ex- 
quisite accompaniments  of  stealth  and  chicane;  but 
lawfully.  And  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  expected 
to  be  happy. 

Yes,  it  was  a  grand  passion  on  both  sides,  and 
for  sometime  it  enthralled  us.  The  girl  in  Inez 
became  the  woman  under  my  eyes.  She  had  in- 
deed the  physical  courage  of  her  love;  and  nothing 
in  my  life  has  ever  more  enchantingly  impressed 
me  than  the  timid,  silent  spontaneities  by  which  in 
the  first  days  she  expressed  this  courage.  I  was 
not  happy,  I  was  merely  absorbed.  There  were 
two  obstacles  to  my  happiness.  One  was  that  my 
work  was  summoning  me.  I  do  not  mean  the 
journalism  by  which  I  gained  a  livelihood,  but  the 
major  enterprise  by  which  I  intended  to  live.  The 
summons  was  insistent.  The  other  was  that  I  could 
not,  from  lack  of  means,  put  Inez  into  the  rich 
frame  which  her  instincts  and  individuality  de- 
manded. We  set  up  housekeeping  with  my  furni- 
ture and  hers,  and  hope.  From  the  circumstances 
in  which  I  had  first  met  her,  and  from  the  atmos- 
phere of  luxury  which  she  seemed  to  emanate,  I 
had  thought  that  she  must  have  some  regular  re- 

46 


BIRTH    AND    DEATH    OF    LOVE 

sources.  But  it  was  not  so.  Her  existence  could 
only  have  been  a  series  of  shifts,  fortunate  escapes, 
and  feats  of  equipoise.  Often  she  must  have  sus- 
tained life  and  brilliant  appearances  on  a  few  shill- 
ings: she  depended  on  the  fees  of  pupils.  Upon 
the  disclosure  of  our  marriage  two  vague  negli- 
gible brothers  showed  themselves  momentarily  and 
vanished;  that  was  all.  The  financial  structure  of 
her  daily  life  seemed  to  crumble  into  dust  at  a 
man's  touch.  I  had  no  grievance  whatever,  but 
such  things  are  curious  enough  to  mention.  I 
could  support  my  wife.  Support,  however,  was 
not  adequate  to  the  situation.  The  perception  of 
my  concealed  unhappiness  induced  unhappiness  in 
her,  which  she  also  concealed  ineffectually.  What 
she  felt  keenliest  was  the  constant  tugging  of  my 
work  against  the  cords  that  held  me  to  her.  She 
could  see  the  cords  stretching.  The  grand  pas- 
sion continued,  still  omnipotent,  an  ever-renewed 
source  of  Lethean  rapture,  an  eternal  refuge  of 
bliss  from  the  world's  dailiness  and  from  conscience 
and  right  judgment.  It  seemed  as  if  nothing  could 
impair  its  sovereign  spell.  Yet  each  day  it  aged, 
if  imperceptibly. 

Inez  abandoned  the  effort  to  conserve  a  clien- 
tele of  pupils,  and  determined  to  practice  with  a 
view  to  public  appearance  as  a  pianist.  I  knew  the 

47 


THE   GLIMPSE 


scheme  was  hopeless;  more  than  extreme  facility 
and  a  receptive  temperament  is  needful  in  these 
days  to  success  in  solo  execution.  She,  too,  some- 
where within  herself,  knew  that  it  was  hopeless. 
The  violence  of  her  appetite  for  pleasure  drove  her 
to  a  desperate  course  that  could  only  end  in  disillu- 
sion. But  I  had  to  pretend  to  admire  the  archi- 
tecture of  her  castle  in  the  air.  I  took  advantage 
of  her  new  habit  of  industry  to  resume  seriously 
my  own  work,  and  I  never  again  loosed  it.  Sud- 
denly the  practicing  ceased.  No  explanation,  no 
comment;  it  ceased!  Then  Inez  became  a  Roman 
Catholic:  which  is  equivalent  to  saying  that  she 
became  an  ardent  Roman  Catholic.  My  attitude 
in  this  picturesque  affair  was  one  of  benevolently 
amused  neutrality.  One  Sunday  evening  I  walked 
into  Brompton  Oratory  with  her.  In  the  theatri- 
cally contrived  gloom  of  the  great  interior,  dim 
figures  knelt  before  the  altars.  I  was  taken  aback 
by  the  violence  with  which  she  threw  herself  down 
in  front  of  a  row  of  candles,  and,  hands  feverishly 
clasped,  poured  out  an  invocation.  I  was  taken 
aback,  and  I  was  put  out  of  countenance.  We 
emerged  in  silence.  Yet  the  physical  courage  of 
her  passion  showed  no  change.  The  religiosity 
was  only  another  instinctive  effort  to  gratify  in- 
expensively her  appetite  for  spectacular  pleasure 

48 


BIRTH    AND     DEATH    OF    LOVE 

— the  appetite  which  I  could  not  gratify.  I  de- 
spised her  now.  I  did  not  hide  from  myself  that 
on  several  counts  I  despised  her.  For  her  recep- 
tiveness,  her  lack  of  original  force,  her  imitative- 
ness!  For  her  fierce  love  of  pleasure!  For  her 
frank  worship  of  popular  success!  This  love  and 
this  worship  were  implicit  in  her  conversation. 
(She  did  not  give  hints;  she  was  more  subtle  than 
that.)  Whereas  my  conversation  implied  that  the 
love  of  spectacular  pleasure  was  barbaric,  and  that 
popular  success  could  have  none  but  a  disquieting 
significance  for  the  philosopher,  and  that  effort  and 
self-approval  were  the  sole  basis  of  genuine  con- 
tent. I  used  always  to  say  that  good  work  was 
good,  and  could  not  be  improved  by  acclamations. 
She  would  agree  that  my  work  was  good,  and  my 
ambition  heroic.  She  would  agree  to  everything. 
But  when  she  heard  or  read  of  resplendent  suc- 
cess, and  of  glittering  existences  made  possible  by 
the  wealth  that  success  had  gained — then  with  a 
single  gesture,  a  single  intonation,  she  would  di- 
vulge her  heart's  secret. 

And  I  despised  her  the  more  because  her  in- 
stincts were  in  accord  with  my  own,  which  warred 
against  my  reason.  I,  too,  wanted  success!  I,  too, 
wanted  the  appreciation  of  the  mob!  I,  too,  wanted 
spectacular  pleasure!  But  I  would  not  admit  it. 

49 


THE    GLIMPSE 


I  was  too  proud  to  admit  that  my  desires  outran 
my  possessions.  It  was  her  frank  admissions  that 
irritated  me.  She,  with  her  beauty  and  her  imper- 
ishable gracefulness,  was  the  voice  of  my  under- 
self.  We  were  straitened;  but  we  had  food,  clothes, 
books,  a  roof,  some  friends,  and  ample  means  of 
private  aesthetic  enjoyment.  We  did  not  look  poor. 
The  rigor  of  my  blue  suits  and  black  neckties  never 
fell  short  of  masculine  elegance.  Her  simple 
clothes  always  achieved  distinction.  Appearances 
were  preserved.  Our  dignity  was  kept.  Was  not 
this  enough?  "No!  No!  and  No!"  her  desires 
seemed  soundlessly  to  shriek. 

One '  evening,  when  I  was  engaged  in  Fleet 
Street,  she  went  -into  the  gallery  at  Covent  Gar- 
den after  standing  three  hours  in  the  queue  for  the 
chance  of  a  seat.  And  she  reached  home  a  few 
minutes  after  me,  draggled,  wet.  I  was  angry. 
My  dignity  was  affronted.  I  nearly  lost  my  tem- 
per— a  mishap  that  I  had  avoided  ever  since  an 
explosion  at  the  age  of  eighteen  had  made  me  ill 
for  a  week.  I  saved  myself  by  sarcasm.  My  wife 
waiting  at  gallery  doors  for  hours  with  the  half- 
crown  mob!  My  wife  trailing  in  and  out  of  om- 
nibuses in  midnight  rain!  Had  she  no  more  self- 
respect,  no  more  regard  for  the  external  form  of 
life?  And  all  the  time  it  was  myself  I  was  upbraid- 

50 


BIRTH    AND     DEATH    OF    LOVE 

ing.  She  was  angry,  viciously  angry.  '  When 
you  can  afford  to  offer  me  a  stall  and  a  hansom 
you  may  begin  to  talk — and  I'll  thank  you  not  to 
begin  before!"  she  said,  and  added  something  in 
the  nature  of  an  anticlimax  to  the  effect  that  she 
did  not  thank  me  for  an  occasional  press  ticket  that 
nobody  else  wanted.  And  she  retired  to  bed.  The 
scene  was  a  profound  humiliation,  for  both  of  us. 
The  effect  of  it  seemed  to  pass,  of  course.  But  in 
six  months  after  that  the  grand  passion  was  dead. 
Of  the  immense  and  fierce  conflagration  nothing 
remained  but  the  black  damage.  The  scene  had 
not  been  a  cause  of  the  passion's  death — merely  a 
symptom  that  it  was  dying.  Five  years  the  grand 
passion  had  lived.  A  great  age!  Three  is  the  nor- 
mal limit.  We  existed  together,  indifferent;  which, 
on  reflection,  seemed  as  miraculous  as  our  mutual 
attraction  once  had  been.  Existence  would  have 
degenerated  into  an  unseemly  altercation  had  not 
my  intense  regard  for  my  dignity  and  hers  continu- 
ally animated  me  to  the  effort  of  tact  and  restraint 
necessary  to  keep  it  at  a  higher  level.  The  ever- 
renewed  effort  was  fatiguing  me  into  despair  when 
two  events — first  the  reception  given  to  my  book 
and  then  the  inheritance  of  my  half-brother's  riches 
— conspired  to  rescue  us.  A  sheer  hazard!  But  we 
were  saved. 

51 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Inez  bore  the  blow  very  well;  and  it  is  not  every- 
body who  can  survive  with  credit  the  shock  of 
great  good  fortune.  Some  shine  in  adversity, 
some  in  prosperity;  Inez  belonged  to  the  latter 
class.  Although  I  secretly  condescended  to  her 
again  because  she  found  her  happiness  so  easily 
amidst  mere  symbols  without  worth,  still  I  admired 
her  for  her  deportment.  She  was  neither  maladroit 
nor  consequential;  nor  was  she  extravagant.  With 
the  calm  mastery  of  a  duck  to  water  she  took  to 
the  income  which  was  now  at  her  disposal,  and  to 
the  situation  of  being  the  wife  of  a  man  who  had 
won  renown  among  the  disdainers  of  the  multi- 
tude. Also,  we  were  both  diverted  by  the  amusing 
process  of  changing  our  environment.  Her  taste 
in  the  creation  of  an  interior  was  quite  as  fastidious 
as  my  own,  and  in  some  respects  more  sure. 

Another  detail.  Less  than  a  year  ago,  despite 
an  uncommonly  powerful  physique  and  constitu- 
tion, I  had  been  overthrown  by  a  serious  attack  of 
rheumatic  fever.  Her  direction  of  my  nursing  was 
admirable,  and  irreproachable  her  demeanor  to 
myself,  especially  during  my  petulant  convalescence 
when  I  defied  doctors  and  devils  to  keep  me  in  bed. 
Throughout  that  illness  the  daily  vision  of  her 
grace — albeit  a  grace  which  never  melted  into  im- 
pulsive tenderness — had  alleviated  my  affliction. 

52 


CHAPTER    VIII 

ON   INEZ 

INEZ  turned  round  from  the  glass  and  faced  me, 
dropping  her  long,  bare  arms. 

"  Well,"  she  said  abruptly,  "  what  do  you  think 
of  it?" 

And  she  stood  quite  still,  as  if  under  inspection. 

"Think  of  what?"  I  asked. 

"  My  new  coiffure,"  she  answered. 

Her  eyes  gleamed;  her  body  seemed  to  quiver 
with  abundant  life. 

"  Let  me  see  now/'  I  said,  and  sat  down,  con- 
scious suddenly  of  fatigue,  on  the  soft,  yielding  bed. 
I  put  my  hands  into  my  pockets  and  stretched  out 
my  legs,  and  gazed  at  that  splendid  hair.  "  Saucy !  " 
I  murmured  judicially,  and  repeated,  with  ap- 
proval, "  Decidedly  saucy !  " 

"  I  should  say  so !  "  she  remarked,  content.  Be- 
neath the  demureness,  the  sobriety,  the  self-watch- 
fulness of  the  woman  who  cuts  an  important  figure 
in  the  world,  there  peeped  out  for  an  instant  the 
malapert,  the  delicious  impudence  of  the  universal 

53 


THE   GLIMPSE 


feminine  satisfied  with  itself.  Not  a  wink;  less  than 
a  wink ;  a  'quiver  across  the  eyelids ! 

In  her  short  skirt  she  tripped  primly  to  a  ward- 
robe, and  opened  it  and  drew  forth  a  tea  gown  in 
two  shades  of  pale  green.  She  held  it  up  thought- 
fully. 

"  I  shall  wear  this  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Mary 
won't  mind.  You've  seen  her  telephone  message  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  And  I've  telephoned  to  Johnnie 
to  come  and  dine,  too." 

"Captain  Hulse!     Why?" 

Her  voice  was  never  more  beautiful  than  when, 
startled,  she  raised  it  slightly. 

"  No  particular  reason,"  I  said.  "  I  just  thought 
we  might  as  well  give  that  affair  every  chance." 

She  lifted  her  chin. 

"  And  did  he  say  he  would  come  ?  " 

"  Of  course,"  I  answered. 

She  stood  hesitant,  with  the  imponderable  robe  in 
her  right  hand,  staring  at  it  absently. 

"Oh!  Well,  he  won't  mind  either!"  she  said, 
coming  to  a  decision;  and  she  slipped  on  the  robe, 
and  shook  it  downward  toward  her  feet  with  a 
curious  motion  of  the  whole  frame. 

"  There's  no  '  of  course  '  about  it,"  she  continued, 
closing  the  wardrobe  and  examining  herself  in  its 
glazed  doors.  "  They  had  lunch  together  to-day." 

54 


ON    INEZ 


"Who  did?" 

"  Mary  and  Captain  Hulse." 

"  The  devil  they  did !  "  I  exclaimed,  charmed  and 
astonished.  "  Who  told  you  ?  " 

"  Captain  Hulse  told  me." 

"  You've  seen  him  this  afternoon?    Where?  " 

"  I  met  him  in  Dover  Street,"  she  replied  quietly, 
twisting  her  neck  so  as  to  glimpse,  from  under  down- 
cast lids,  the  back  of  the  robe  in  the  glass.  "  It 
seems  Mary  came  up  to  town  this  morning  for  the 
day." 

"  Arranged  beforehand,  then  ?  " 

"What?" 

"  The  lunch." 

"  7  don't  know,"  said  Inez,  with  an  inflection 
playfully  malicious ;  as  if  she  had  said :  "  Don't  ask 
me  what  goes  on  between  your  correct  sister  and 
Captain  Hulse !  " 

"  Anyhow,"  I  said,  "  he'll  meet  her  at  two  meals 
in  the  same  day,  instead  of  one;  that's  all.  It'll  be 
a  surprise  for  him — and  for  her." 

"  You  didn't  tell  him  she  was  coming,  then?  " 

"  Not  exactly."     I  laughed. 

"  Morrice !  "  said  the  singular,  the  ever-enigmatic 
Inez.  "  What's  the  matter  with  you  to-day?  "  She 
said  it  kindly,  half  maternally. 

I  grinned,  and  mischievously  curled  my  lips.  As- 
55 


THE    GLIMPSE 


suredly  neither  she  nor  anyone  could  have  guessed 
that  I  was  incurably  unhappy  and  desolate,  and  that 
all  this  amused  and  naughty  interfering  interest 
which  I  displayed  in  a  matter  that  did  not  concern 
me  was  no  more  an  expression  of  my  soul  than  foam 
is  an  expression  of  the  mystery  of  the  sea's  dark 
bed.  How  deep  life  lies ! 

"  I  heard  a  fine  thing  this  afternoon,"  I  said,  and 
told  her  about  the  concert  and  Ravel's  "  Miroirs." 

"So  that's  it,  is  it?"  she  remarked.  "You're 
always  like  that  when  you've  heard  something 
good." 

"Like  what?" 

"  Larkish,"  she  said  after  a  pause. 

"  Oh,  indeed !  "  I  rejoined  grimly.  But  whether 
she  was  stating  a  profound  truth  generalized  from 
a  long  series  of  careful  observations,  or  whether  she 
was  saying  merely  the  first  thing  that  came  into  her 
head,  I  knew  not.  One  never  does  know,  in  these 
cases. 

"  Was  that  Ravel  that  you  were  trying  to  play 
just  now  ?  "  she  inquired. 

"  Yes." 

"  My  poor  boy!  "  She  raised  her  eyebrows,  as  if 
it  were  in  compassion  at  my  horrible  failure. 

"  Simply  unplayable  at  sight !  "  I  excused  myself. 

"  My  poor  boy !  "  she  said  again. 

56 


ON    INEZ 


"  Well,"  I  said,  "  you  try  yourself,  and  you'll 


see." 


"  Oh !  "  she  lightly  exclaimed.  "  I  don't  pretend 
to  play,  now." 

"  You  shall  wrestle  with  Ravel  to-night,  at  any 
rate,"  I  said.  "  We'll  watch  your  struggles,  Mrs. 
Conceit." 

Instead  of  replying  she  looked  at  me  fixedly. 

"  And  what  have  you  been  doing  since  the  con- 
cert ?  "  she  asked. 

"Nothing,"  I  said.  "I  strolled  feebly  home 
through  the  Park." 

"  Where  did  you  have  tea  ?  " 

"  Haven't  had  any,"  I  admitted.  "  Never  once 
thought  of  it !  Anyway,  it's  too  late  now." 

"  Morrice !  "  she  protested.  "  And  look  how  hot 
it  is!  You  know  how  you  are  when  you  get  too 
thirsty.  You'll  eat  nothing.  Do  you  mean  to  say 
you  aren't  thirsty  ?  " 

"  I  won't  swear  I'm  not." 

She  tapped  her  gilded  foot.  "  You  must  have 
something  to  drink."  Then  she  rang  the  bell.  The 
spectacled  girl  responded. 

"  Marion,"  she  said  coldly,  "  mix  a  lemon  squash 
and  put  it  in  the  study — at  once." 

"  Yes'm." 

"  And,  Marion !  "  She  held  the  girl  as  by  an  in- 
57 


THE   GLIMPSE 


visible  chain  while  she  turned  to  me :  "  Have  you 
told  them  that  Captain  Hulse  is  coming  to  dinner  ?  " 

"  No,"  I  said  guiltily. 

"  But,  my  poor  boy,  how  do  you  expect  them 
to  know  ?  "  Then  to  Marion :  "  Captain  Hulse  is 
coming  "to  dinner,  as  well  as  Mrs.  Dean." 

"Thank  you,  m'm." 

The  door  was  silently  shut. 

Very  soon  we  heard  discreet  noises  in  the  adjoin- 
ing study. 

"  Now  go  and  have  your  lemon  squash,"  said 
Inez  gravely.  "  And  whatever  you  do,  don't  drink 
too  quickly." 

As  I  sat  obediently  drinking,  surrounded  by  my 
books,  I  could  hear  her  quick,  smooth  movements 
in  the  bedroom — the  rustle  of  stuffs,  a  few  foot- 
steps, a  murmured  exclamation,  the  tinkle  of  jewel- 
ry. I  felt  dimly  that  I  had  enjoyed  that  conver- 
sation. Mysterious  Inez !  She  was  young  yet.  She 
exulted  in  the  force  of  her  vitality  and  in  the  power 
of  her  charm.  She  was  happy.  She  had  within  her 
a  secret  and  inexhaustible  sense  of  happiness.  She 
was  without  ambition.  Her  ambition  had  been  ful- 
filled and  was  dead.  She  knew  no  divine  discontent. 
She  lived  from  hour  to  hour,  in  and  for  the  hour. 
She  did  not  live  in  the  future.  Each  hour  was  an  end 
in  itself.  She  never  yearned  for  the  other  side  of 

58 


ON    INEZ 


the  hill,  beyond  the  sunset.  She  culled  the  flowers 
in  her  path.  And  in  my  unfathomable  desolation, 
which  surged  over  me  again  as  I  dreamed  alone  in 
my  lair,  I  asked  myself :  "  But  is  not  this  the  true 
art  of  life  that  she  practices?  Have  I  not  always 
been  preparing  to  live,  and  never  living?  I  may 
have  found  knowledge,  but  it  is  she  who  has  found 
wisdom.  She  is  wise  enough  to  live.  I  am  not." 

She  had  no  eyesight  for  the  inconvenient  un- 
pleasant imperfections  that  mar  the  earth.  She  saw 
what  she  wished  to  see,  and  no  more.  And  I  asked 
myself:  "But  is  not  this  also  the  true  art  of  life? 
And  if  she  goes  to  one  extreme,  do  I  not  go  to  the 
other  ?  After  all,  one  must  select  one's  facts.  One 
cannot  see  everything.  One  cannot  take  the  whole 
world  on  one's  shoulders." 

A  door  clicked  gently.  She  had  left  the  bed- 
room, quietly,  elegantly,  with  those  movements  of 
hers  that  never  jarred.  .  .  . 

Shallow?  Birdlike?  Yes,  perhaps!  But  how 
mysterious!  And  how  graceful!  The  infallible  firm 
grace  of  her  gestures  could  not  but  be  the  expression 
of  something  distinguished  in  her  soul.  This 
thought  intensified  my  sadness  almost  intolerably: 
that  once  the  sight  of  her  could  throw  me  into  a 
fever,  and  that  now  I  could  behold  her  unmoved. 
Gone,  that  spell !  .  .  .  Was  I  not  unjust  to  her  in 
5  59 


THE   GLIMPSE 


crediting  her  with  happiness?  Something  was  ir- 
revocably dead  in  her,  too.  Could  it  be  naught  to 
her  that  now  I  beheld  her  unmoved,  and  she  me?  I 
felt  as  sorry  for  her  as  for  myself.  I  went  back 
through  the  sad,  exquisite,  violent  hours  of  our  long 
passion.  We  were  close  linked,  indeed,  by  the  past, 
by  all  those  days  and  all  those  nights.  We  had 
lived,  together.  And  now  we  inhabited  the  same 
flat,  satisfying  our  tepid  desires  with  the  sane  and 
perfunctory  nonchalance  of  animals.  Could  she  be 
really  happy  ?  Or  was  her  demeanor  only  a  splendid 
proud  pretense? 

The  piano  sounded.  She  was  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  attacking  the  "  Night  Moths  "  of  Ravel, 
at  sight.  It  was  a  brilliant,  audacious  effort;  a  su- 
preme effort  to  show  me  of  what  she  was  capable 
when  she  tried.  I  thought :  "  By  God !  she  may 
be  shallow,  but  she's  infernally  clever.  How  many 
women,  or  men,  are  there  in  London  who  could  do 
that?" 

In  that  moment  I  was  conscious,  or  deemed  that 
I  was  conscious,  of  the  first  flicker  of  a  new  longing 
for  her.  Through  her  I  seemed  to  perceive  an  escape 
from  my  desolation;  a  cure  for  my  malady,  or  at 
least  a  relief  from  it.  I  saw  hope.  I  thought: 
"  Surely  one  can  rebuild,  knowingly!  Artifi- 
cial! .  .  .  But  who  shall  say  what  is  artificial  and 

60 


ON    INEZ 


what  real  ?  I  must  teach  myself  to  forget  the  future 
in  the  present,  and  the  world  in  her."  .  .  .  And  I 
saw  her  as  an  incomparable  instrument  and  aid  to 
philosophic  living,  an  instrument  that  had  lain  idle. 
"  Oh,  yes !  "  I  said  to  myself — I  nearly  said  it  aloud, 
"  I  must  try  this,  seriously.  I  must  learn  to  live." 
I  was  quite  excited,  and  in  my  excitement  I  had  the 
illusion  of  forgetting  my  desolation. 


CHAPTER    IX 

THE   DINNER 

1WAS  late  for  dinner.  Inez  raised  her  finger  at 
me,  good-humoredly  reproachful.  Hulse  was 
on  the  hearth  rug,  talking  as  usual.  My  sister 
Mary,  at  ease  on  a  sofa,  was  listening  to  him,  in- 
tently, with  a  faint  malicious  smile.  Few  disturb- 
ing phenomena  could  interrupt  Hulse  when  his 
lips  had  been  fairly  unsealed;  and  certainly  the  ar- 
rival in  the  drawing-room  of  a  host  was  not  among 
them.  He  shook  my  hand  absently  but  power- 
fully, without  a  pause  in  his  speech.  Mary  and  I 
kissed  with  the  nonchalance  of  brother  and  sister. 

"  I  was  pretty  late,"  she  whispered,  under  the 
loud  cadences  of  Hulse.  "  But  I'm  not  so  bad  as 
you." 

"  Come  along,"  said  Inez. 

We  went  into  the  dining  room,  and  sat  down, 
and  Marion,  the  spectacled  girl,  who  was  petrified 
in  a  corner  like  a  statue  of  some  realistic  decadence, 
received  the  magic  gift  of  life,  and  began  the  relig- 
ious service  of  the  dinner;  and  Hulse  still  elo- 

62 


THE   DINNER 


quently  flowed  on,  in  what  I  perceived  to  be  a 
description  of  a  collision  between  suffragettes  and 
policemen  which  he  had  himself  witnessed  at  St. 
Stephen's  late  that  afternoon. 

'  Their  faces  were  covered  with  sweat,"  he  said. 
"  Their  whole  bodies  must  have  been  in  a  sweat." 

Another  man  would  have  said  "  perspiration,"  es- 
pecially in  presence  of  a  woman  like  Mary;  but 
not  the  unsparing  Johnnie  Hulse.  All  his  existence 
seemed  to  be  a  challenge  to  the  world.  He  was  one 
of  those  whose  chief  characteristic  is  that  they  don't 
care  what  happens  next,  one  of  those  who  are  rich 
enough  to  pay  any  price  for  candor.  He  went  about 
saying  the  things  he  thought,  in  his  loud,  rich,  ora- 
tor's voice.  I  had  met  him  a  couple  of  years  before 
at  the  Savile  Club,  from  which  he  had  subsequently 
withdrawn,  saying  savagely  that  its  manners  were 
too  demure,  and  that  it  was  the  last  and  worst 
stronghold  of  British  hypocrisy.  He  never  tired  of 
teasing  me,  who  remained  a  faithful  member,  by 
calling  it  the  Mincing  Club.  He  was  the  most  vio- 
lent and  the  most  persuasive  man  that  I  have  perhaps 
ever  known.  By  profession,  he  painted  in  oils.  He 
was  a  pillar  of  the  New  English  Art  Club.  His 
pictures  were  small  and  rare  and  tremendously  de- 
fiant. A  few  were  magnificent.  I  had  one  that  was 
a  masterpiece.  "  I  think  that  will  give  you  pleas- 

63 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ure,"  he  said  to  me  when  I  bought  it  from  him. 
It  did.  Whenever  Johnnie  Hulse  outraged  me  I 
used  to  look  at  that  picture  and  say  to  myself,  nod- 
ding my  head :  "  But  he  can  paint — I'm  damned  if 
he  can't ! "  I  was  one  of  the  few  that  did  buy  a 
picture  from  him  occasionally.  The  press  and  the 
public  honestly  thought  his  work  too  obstreperously 
absurd  for  even  a  moment's  consideration.  "  The 
worst  eccentricities  of  the  French  school  of  Inde- 
pendents," said  one  organ.  "  It  would  be  revolting 
were  it  not  comic,"  said  another.  And  another  said 
not  a  word,  doubtless  hoping  the  more  effectually 
to  snub  the  fellow  by  this  august  and  complete 
silence.  Of  course  he  had  lived  too  long  in  Paris. 
He  spoke  French  too  well.  These  things  put  Eng- 
land against  him.  And  he  was  always  against 
England.  "  It's  an  impossible  country  for  an  artist," 
he  would  roll  out.  "  Im-poss-i-ble !  And  I'm  al- 
ways coming  back  to  it." 

He  had  no  private  means,  and  he  would  remark 
that  in  a  good  year  he  made  enough  out  of  painting 
to  pay  for  his  rose  madder.  Yet  he  continually 
spent  large  sums  of  money.  He  was  a  bachelor, 
with  the  most  expensive  of  all  hobbies :  women. 
Now,  at  the  age  of  forty,  possibly  the  ardor  of  that 
hobby  had  somewhat  cooled.  In  the  matter  of 
women,  his  taste  was  as  wide  as  humanity;  it  in- 

64 


THE   DINNER 


eluded  the  very  worst  and  the  very  best.  In  all 
other  matters  he  would  have  naught  but  the  best. 
He  could  never  tolerate  the  second  rate  in  cigar- 
ettes, clothes,  literature,  trains — what  not!  A 
highly  experienced  frequenter  of  all  the  fashionable 
restaurants  in  London  and  Paris,  he  was  treated  as 
an  equal  by  chefs;  and  maitres  d'hotel  and  waiters 
simply  fawned  around  him  like  dogs;  but  then  he 
had  only  one  way  of  talking,  whether  to  a  prime 
minister  or  a  waiter;  and  he  never  examined  a  bill, 
and  he  gave  enormous  tips.  He  was  the  artist  royal. 
Strange  and  sinister  tales  ran  about  as  to  the  origin 
of  his  income.  But  the  origin  of  his  income  was 
quite  simple.  It  came  from  his  connoisseurship  in 
the  old  masters,  in  the  painters  of  the  Romantic 
school,  and  in  Japanese  painting.  He  was  acknowl- 
edged, among  the  initiate,  to  be  one  of  the  supreme 
European  experts.  And  he  stooped  to  dealing;  he 
was  a  power  behind  the  thrones  of  the  great  dealers. 
"  I  must  have  money/'  he  would  say.  "  And  I  can 
get  it,  so."  When  he  had  planted,  at  an  exaggerated 
price,  a  bad  genuine  example  of  an  old  master  upon 
a  wholesale  draper  in  search  of  correctness,  his  pri- 
vate joy  was  infantile.  Another  victory  over  the 
hypocritical  bourgeois — curse  'em !  He  had  had  lean 
years,  and  narrow  escapes,  but  he  had  also  had  fat 
years.  In  one  resplendent  year  he  had  bought  a 

65 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Titian  from  an  ignorant  fool  in  Liege  for  a  thousand 
francs,  and  sold  it  at  Christie's  for  nineteen  thou- 
sand pounds.  "  Not  honest,  of  course !  "  he  would 
admit.  "  I  ought  to  have  told  the  ass  what  he  was 
selling  to  me.  But  it's  within  the  commercial  code. 
This  isn't  heaven — it's  the  earth/'  It  was  in  that 
year  that  London  heard  of  Captain  Hulse's  private 
orchestra — a  fleeting  regal  caprice. 

The  title  "  captain  "  suited  him,  with  his  tremen- 
dous voice  and  often  aggressive  demeanor,  and  his 
broad,  square  shoulders;  though  his  stature  was  a 
little  below  the  normal  of  his  class.  It  was  a  vestige 
of  some  youthful  strutting  in  the  militia.  He  de- 
spised the  military  temperament  with  a  cruel  incan- 
descent scorn,  but  he  kept  to  the  title,  calculating  in 
hundreds  of  pounds  its  annual  value  to  him  on  this 
human  bourgeois  earth. 

"  They  were  not  cats,"  Captain  Hulse  proceeded 
with  his  description  to  my  sister  of  what  he  had 
seen,  while  my  wife  and  I  watched.  "  No !  worse 
than  cats.  Cats  don't  sweat,  and  even  when  they 
scratch  they  are  graceful,  they  never  lose  their  dig- 
nity. They  were  scowling  and  gasping  and  pulling 
faces,  their  hats  all  awry,  and  most  absurdly  trying 
to  stick  their  feet  into  the  ground  so  firm  that  the 
policemen  couldn't  push  them  on.  And  there  were 
those  great,  tall,  fat,  overfed  brutes  of  policemen, 

66 


THE   DINNER 


with  leather  round  their  waists  to  keep  their  gross 
flesh  from  sprawling,  shoving  them  along  all  the 
time,  fumbling,  without  using  their  hands,  and  look- 
ing right  over  the  girls'  heads,  like  hippopotamuses 
on  their  hind  legs." 

Never  did  Johnnie  Hulse  refer  to  London  police- 
men save  in  terms  of  disgust.  It  was  their  height 
that  he  could  not  tolerate.  He  was  secretly  very 
sensitive  about  his  own  stature ;  nor  did  the  thought 
of  Napoleon  soothe  him.  Once  when  we  were  stand- 
ing side  by  side  alone  together  at  a  bookcase  in 
my  study,  he  had  said  suddenly,  in  a  savage  tone, 
looking  up  at  me:  "Gad,  Loring,  I  could  murder 
you!"  "Why?"  "Because  you're  eight  inches 
taller  than  I  am."  "  You  could  make  hay  of  me," 
I  laughed,  and  he  said :  "  I  know  I  could." 

He  went  on,  to  Mary: 

"  And  the  crowd,  the  miserable  crowd  of  shabby 
clerks  and  fly  swallowers,  yah-ing  and  yow-ing  and 
yaw-ing — cads,  worse  than  a  Roman  mob  at  a  circus, 
and  that's  saying  something!  It  was  obscene,  noth- 
ing else  but  obscene!  It  took  humanity  back  to 
the  stone  and  the  wood  age.  And  it  was  the  girls 
who  were  the  cause.  I  call  it  an  offense  against 
decency." 

Mary,  excited  and  controlling  her  excitement, 
nervously  looked  down  at  her  soup  plate.  She  was 

67 


THE,  GLIMPSE 


wearing  a  large  black-and-white  hat.  .Why  she 
should  have  retained  her  hat  during  dinner  I  could 
not  imagine,  unless  for  a  sign  that  the  visit  was 
informal  and  that  she  was  a  mere  pilgrim.  But 
the  retention  of  the  hat  was  characteristic  of  Mary. 

"  And  yet  you  say  you  are  in  favor  of  our  cam- 
paign," she  murmured,  and  sipped  at  her  spoon 
primly.  Mary  was  influential  in  the  organizing 
councils  of  the  suffragist  cause.  I  guessed  that  she 
had  come  to  London  that  day  for  a  committee  meet- 
ing. She  did  not,  however,  form  part  of  the  police- 
men-assaulting battalions. 

"I  was!  I  was!"  Johnnie  thundered.  "But  I 
don't  know  if  I  am  now.  I  hadn't  seen  the  cam- 
paign in  action  before.  I  only  saw  it  to-day  by 
sheer  accident;  and  I  don't  want  to  see  it  again.  I 
couldn't  stand  it.  It's  obscene,  it's  bestial." 

"  All  you  need  is  a  course  of  training,"  my  sister 
rejoined  in  her  careful  voice.  "  If  you  can't  stand 
the  sight  of  women  '  sweating '  in  the  street" — she 
emphasized  ever  so  slightly  his  Anglo-Saxon  word — 
"  you  ought  to  go  and  see  them  '  sweating '  in  laun- 
dries in  Shepherd's  Bush,  and  '  sweating '  in  dress- 
makers' workrooms  in  Sloane  Street,  and  '  sweat- 
ing '  in  mills  in  Lancashire,  and  '  sweating '  behind 
bars  all  over  England.  And  if  that  doesn't  harden 
you,  you'll  have  to  tell  them  personally  that  they're 

68 


THE    DINNER 


obscene  and  ungraceful,  and  that  their  proper  sphere 
is  the  home." 

He  stared  at  her  with  his  glittering  eyes,  but  she 
kept' hers  bent  on  the  table. 

"  People  won't  stand  those  street  scenes,  you'll 
find,"  he  muttered. 

"  Exactly ! "  said  my  sister  with  false  calm. 
"  And  that's  how  we  shall  win !  Not  by  convincing 
you,  but  by  shocking  you.  The  British  public  will 
never  be  convinced  by  argument.  But  two  drops  of 
perspiration  on  the  cheeks  of  a  nice-looking  girl  with 
a  torn  skirt  and  a  crushed  hat  will  make  it  tremble 
for  the  safety  of  its  ideals,  and  twenty  drops  will 
persuade  it  to  sign  anything  for  the  restoration  of 
decency.  You  surely  don't  suppose  that  argument 
will  be  of  any  use !  "  she  finished  acidly. 

"  How  true  that  is !  "  he  yielded,  with  a  rich  and 
generous  smile  that  instantly  dispelled  all  ^ie  serious 
hardness  of  his  face.  "  How  true  that  is !  "  And 
he  was  off  instantly  on  his  favorite  horse,  charging 
against  the  cowardly  hypocrisy  of  the  British  public. 

Mary  had  won  in  the  encounter.  And  few  wom- 
en, or  men  either,  would  have  faced  the  torrent  of 
Johnnie's  invective.  Inez,  for  example,  never  se- 
riously disagreed  with  him,  never  came  to  grips.  She 
would  retreat — behind  a  fan,  or  she  would  abjectly 
concur  in  his  thesis.  But  Mary,  the  stickler  for  de- 

69 


THE   GLIMPSE 


corum,  the  outwardly  timid  and  gauche,  the  prim, 
the  demure,  the  tremendously  English — Mary  was 
a  fighter.  And  she  had  a  gift  of  sarcasm  that  was 
a  very  dangerous  weapon. 

The  widow  of  a  rich  stockbroker,  she  lived  at 
Harrow  with  her  little  daughter,  aged  seven.  Super- 
ficially she  was  the  most  English  Englishwoman 
that  you  could  see  in  a  box  at  a  theater.  A  neutral ! 
But  the  heat  of  the  suffragist  movement  had  some- 
how broken  the  obstinate  frost  of  her  nature, 
and  her  individuality  had  emerged,  was  still 
emerging. 

Difficult  to  conceive  two  individualities  more  dis- 
similar than  hers  and  Johnnie's!  And  yet  at  their 
first  encounter,  six  months  ago,  she  had  been  very 
visibly  impressed  by  him,  and  he  had  surprisingly 
confided  to  me  his  admiration  of  her  character  and 
intellect.  .She  did  not  conceal  that  she  liked  him. 
She  could  not.  Even  in  arguing  with  him,  even 
in  pouring  out  satire  on  him,  she  could  not.  She 
vibrated  with  a  new  and  strange  vitality  when  he 
was  present.  These  phenomena  titillated  me;  I 
found  them  poignant.  The  matchmaker  that  is  in 
everybody  was  roused  in  me.  Naturally,  no  one 
could  foretell  the  consequences  of  a  union  between 
two  such  opposing  creatures.  But  then  no  one  could 
foretell  the  consequences  of  any  union  whatsoever! 

70 


THE   DINNER 


The  prospect  was  not  without  danger.  But  what 
prospect  is?  He  was,  or  had  been,  in  plain  word, 
a  libertine.  Well,  she  knew.  Everyone  knew.  I 
could  fancy  even  that  fact  did  not  disserve  him  in 
my  sister's  eyes.  He  was  mentally  honester  than 
any  stockbroker.  And  she  had  enough  money  for 
both.  It  would  be  positively  exciting  to  see  them 
married,  to  see  Johnnie  Hulse  as  a  stepfather,  and 
the  prim  Mary  intimately  foregathering  with  the 
violent  amateur  of  varied  experiences.  They  were 
foregathering  already.  The  lunch,  tete-a-tete:  at 
whose  suggestion,  I  wondered,  had  that  occurred? 
And  what  had  they  discussed?  It  pleased  me  to 
consider  Mary  in  a  new  role.  Deeper  than  all  these 
feelings  was  the  desire,  possibly  quite  altruistic,  to 
complete  these  two  fine  individualities  by  joining 
them.  I  liked  and  I  respected  them  both.  Johnnie 
Hulse,  as  a  distinguished  painter,  a  fastidious  critic, 
an  honest  and  powerful  intelligence,  a  man  of  im- 
mense moral  courage  and  an  original  artist  in  life! 
As  for  my  sister,  I  have  never  respected  a  woman 
more  than  I  did  her.  And  of  her  irony,  and  her 
harsh,  brusque  common  sense,  I  was  almost  naively 
proud. 

"  Marion,"  I  said  suddenly,  "  bring  some  cham- 
pagne." 

A  childish  idea  on  my  part.     But  tradition  has 


THE   GLIMPSE 


made  this  meretricious  draught  the  classic  symbol  of 
joyous  fellowship  and  spiritual  outpouring. 

"  I  shan't  drink  your  champagne,  you  know," 
Johnnie  laughed  shortly,  half  sneering,  while  Marion 
was  speaking  in  her  unmoved  anaemia  into  the  tube 
to  the  kitchen.  He  never  would  touch  champagne. 

"  The  others  will,"  said  I.    "  And  I  shall." 

And  we  did,  Mary  of  course  demurely,  timidly. 

She  and  Johnnie  nearly  monopolized  the  conver- 
sation. It  was  their  hour.  I  looked  across  at  Inez. 
Though  she  was  silent,  her  eye,  too,  glanced  fires. 
A  mysterious  life  seemed  to  be  stirring  darkly  within 
her.  She,  too,  must  have  been  quickened  by  the 
quickening  of  passion  in  Mary  and  in  John  Hulse. 
Far,  far,  within  my  soul,  the  real  Me  existed  still 
desolate,  but  resolutely  saying  to  itself :  "  You  must 
learn  to  live.  Perhaps  the  whole  secret  of  your 
despair  lies  in  the  fact  that,  having  once  loved  ar- 
dently, you  had  ceased  to  love.  Perhaps  it  is  noth- 
ing more  recondite  than  that.  Perhaps  .  .  ." 


CHAPTER    X 

THE   DEPARTURE 

INEZ  sat  at  the  piano,  reading  the  "  Mournful 
Birds  "  of  Ravel.  I  stood  fingering  a  book  in  a 
corner  of  the  drawing-room,  watching  her.  Mary 
and  Johnnie  Hulse  were  together  on  a  settee, 
watching  her.  The  room  was  brightest  over  her 
head.  The  lines  of  her  gown,  of  her  arms,  and  of 
her  intent  profile  were  beautiful.  Her  hands  and 
the  gestures  of  her  hands  were  beautiful.  Strange 
that  that  woman  could  not  move  without  creating 
beauty!  The  whole  of  her  life  was  an  evolution  of 
one  grace  out  of  another.  She  was  at  her  best 
when  she  knew  that  she  was  observed.  She  be- 
came then  a  conscious  artist,  intensifying  by  ap- 
plied skill  her  appeal  to  the  eye.  Hulse  felt  it. 
Mary  also  must  have  felt  it.  Mary  was  pleasant 
to  look  upon,  particularly  her  talking  eyes  and  the 
subtle,  critical  malice  of  her  lips  when  they  curved 
downward.  But  she  did  not  enrapture  the  sight, 
and  she  was  not  complete.  Her  movements  were 
somewhat  ungainly;  her  dress  was  no  part  of  her- 
self. Inez  had  a  magic  power  over  her  dress  so 

73 


THE   GLIMPSE 


that  it  was  always  expressive  of  her.  When  Inez 
put  on  a  dress  it  became  alive,  endowed  with  her 
life,  and  even  a  little  fold  of  silk  down  near  her 
foot  would  illustrate  the  elegance  of  her  intention; 
she  could  kick  the  last  flounce  of  it  into  harmony. 
Mary's  clothes,  expensive,  stylish,  might  have 
been  anybody's.  Mary's  clothes  surrounded  her 
and  trailed  after  her  by  force  of  hooks ;  they  passed 
a  dismal  existence  deprived  of  love.  Mary  scorned 
clothes;  at  least  she  scorned  her  own.  Her  good 
clothes  were  her  concession  to  conventionality. 
Mary,  having  intellect  and  the  effective  weapon  of 
humor,  relied  on  these.  She  did  not  begin  to  live 
socially  till  her  body  was  at  rest  and  her  acute  self- 
consciousness  reassured.  Then  her  individual- 
ity would  be  radioactive.  Whereas  the  individual- 
ity of  Inez  spent  itself  mildly  without  ceasing  in  a 
persuasive  appeal  to  the  sight.  But  it  must  not 
be  invited  to  assertion  in  other  ways.  Instinctively 
it  avoided  such  other  ways.  Inez  seldom  or  never 
said  anything  original,  or  even  witty,  or  memo- 
rable. She  shirked  argument,  and  if  compelled  to 
argue,  she  lost  her  grace.  What  intellect  she  had 
she  would  not  display. 

And  yet  the  coordination  of  eye  and  brain  and 
hands  necessary  to  the  smooth  reading  of  the  mu- 
sic as  she  read  it — surely  that  involved  not  merely 

74 


THE   DEPARTURE 


intellectual  power,  but  intellectual  power  highly 
disciplined!  And  it  involved  a  receptiveness,  a  re- 
sponsiveness, and  a  controlled  emotional  facility 
that  were  astonishing.  Impossible  to  dismiss  Inez 
as  an  inventor  of  attitudes  and  a  flatterer  of  the 
eye!  In  an  encounter,  in  a  collision,  Mary  could 
have  vanquished  her  and  rendered  her  ridiculous 
to  the  understanding,  so  far  as  she  might  have  dif- 
fered from  Mary.  But  Mary  never  could  have 
accomplished  what  Inez  was  accomplishing,  nor  any- 
thing else  on  the  same  level  of  skilled  effective- 
ness. Mary  could  never  shine  with  that  radiance. 
Whatever  Mary's  mission  was  she  could  not  carry 
it  to  the  same  point  of  perfection  as  Inez  carried 
her  mission  of  affording  aesthetic  delight.  Inez, 
who  lived  for  pleasure,  was  a  marvelous  instru- 
ment of  pleasure.  And  in  such  a  feat  as  the  feat 
of  that  evening  she  was  at  her  best. 

She  had  impregnated  the  room  with  the  deli- 
cious sadness  of  those  mournful  birds.  Having  fin- 
ished she  turned  half  round  on  the  music  stool,  her 
right  hand  on  its  rim,  and  her  face,  in  shadow,  lean- 
ing forward. 

"  Well?  "  she  asked,  looking  at  Johnnie. 

"  Well,"  said  Johnnie.  "  He'd  got  a  nerve,  no 
mistake!  " 

"  Who?  " 

6  75 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"  The  man  that  brought  that  to  London  and 
played  it  to  an  English  audience!  Tcha!"  He 
chuckled  almost  silently.  "  Tcha!  " 

The  thought  of  the  dull,  heavy  hostility  of  the 
English  audience  gave  him  an  intense,  sinister  joy. 
He  reveled  in  the  stupidity  of  his  fellow-country- 
men. 

"  Do  you  like  it?  "  asked  Inez. 

"  I'm  interested  in  it,"  he  replied,  hesitating. 

"  He's  only  just  landed  in  New  York,"  said 
Mary.  "  You  mustn't  ask  him  yet  what  he  thinks 
of  the  country." 

"  New  York!  "  Inez  murmured  carelessly.  "  My 
dear,  what  are  you  talking  about?  Morrice,  I  wish 
you'd  get  me  my  cigarettes." 

"  Will  you  play  another?  "  Johnnie  suggested, 
leaning  back. 

"  Play  '  A  Bark  on  the  Ocean,'  "  I  said,  as  I 
looked  here  and  there  for  her  cigarette  case. 

"Oh,  yes!"  she  protested.  "You  choose  the 
most  difficult,  naturally! " 

I  drew  aside  the  curtains  and  slightly  opened  the 
double  doors  to  go  into  the  dining  room.  There, 
one  table  lamp  burned  on  the  sideboard,  and  under 
it  was  Inez's  cigarette  case.  In  the  shadow,  at 
the  far  end  of  the  silent  room,  a  figure  was  bending 
over  the  dumb-waiter.  It  was  Marion,  fulfilling  the 

76 


THE   DEPARTURE 


last  rites.  I  could  distinguish  the  black  of  her 
dress,  the  white  braces  of  her  apron,  and  the  white 
blossom  in  her  hair.  She  jumped  up  on  hearing 
me,  and  her  spectacles  glinted  darkly  on  her  pale, 
flabby  face. 

"  Can  I  get  you  anything,  sir?  "  she  inquired 
with  respectful  eagerness. 

"  No,  thanks,"  I  said.  "  I  only  wanted  these 
cigarettes." 

She  turned  calmly  away.  I  could  have  gone  up 
to  her  and  stood  over  and  demanded  of  her:  "  And 
what  do  you  think  of  life,  mysterious  Marion? " 
But  of  course  I  did  not.  Was  it  a  heart  that  beat 
within  that  flat  bosom,  or  was  it  only  a  clock?  It 
would  seem  that  I  could  not,  by  shutting  my  outer 
door  on  the  hanging  gallery,  shut  out  enigmas 
from  my  abode!  I  returned  with  the  cigarette  case 
to  the  glitter  of  the  drawing-room  and  drew  the 
curtains  on  Marion  kneeling  at  the  extremity  of 
the  dark  dining  room. 

Inez  was  staring  at  the  music.  Evidently  she 
meant  to  play  again.  Suddenly  Mary  sprang  up 
and  went  to  the  piano. 

"  Shall  I  turn  over  for  you,  Inez?  " 

"Oh,  do,  dear!" 

Mary  drew  a  chair  up  to  the  piano,  and  sat  down, 
frowning  as  she  examined  the  pages.  And  Inez 

77 


THE   GLIMPSE 


began  to  play  "  A  Bark  on  the  Ocean/'  having 
first  exchanged  a  smile  with  Mary.  Those  two 
women  had  nothing  in  common.  They  had  little 
sympathy  with  each  other.  It  would  have  been 
difficult  to  believe  that  Mary  did  not  intellectually 
condescend  toward  Inez,  and  certainly  Inez  some- 
times resented  the  razor  which  was  Mary's  tongue. 
Yet  they  sat  side  by  side  as  though  endeared  by 
the  closest  ties  of  love  and  mutual  comprehension. 
It  seemed  as  if  Mary  had  suddenly  felt  compelled 
to  flee  from  the  male  on  the  settee,  and  that  now 
they  two  had  formed  a  party  for  self-protection 
against  the  two  males  in  the  room.  Somehow, 
Mary,  in  that  moment,  appeared  to  me  more  a 
woman  than  I  had  ever  seen  her,  and  less  a  mere 
intellectual  sister.  They  made  a  picture.  They 
made  a  symbol.  I  thought:  "  Ah,  why  cannot  all 
fine  women  be  merged  into  one  for  the  companion- 
ship of  a  man?  Why  cannot  a  man  demand  every- 
thing from  a  woman  and  have  it?  Then  the  mean- 
ing of  life  might  be  clearer." 

Johnnie  was  also  affected  by  the  grouping  of  the 
women.  He  took  from  the  pocket  of  his  dinner 
jacket  the  sketchbook  which  he  often  carried,  and 
started  to  jab  marks  on  it  with  a  green-cased  lith- 
ographic pencil,  scowling.  I  knew  that  he  would 
be  producing  something  vehement  and  surprising. 

78 


THE   DEPARTURE 


He  would  be  capable  of  centralizing  the  interest 
on  Mary's  hat,  and  of  attempting  to  express  the 
whole  significance  of  the  composition  in  the  curves 
of  the  hat. 

Inez  played  courageously,  surging  through  the 
incredible  arpeggios  as  the  bark  surged  through 
the  ocean.  And  all  Mary's  intellect  was  concen- 
trated to  the  effort  of  turning  the  page  at  the  right, 
critical  instant.  The  room  was  full  of  heaving 
sound. 

Suddenly  Inez  threw  up  her  hands  and  the  music 
ceased. 

"  Oh!  It's  absurd!  "  she  exclaimed  crossly.  "  I 
can't  do  it!  No  one  could!  It  wants  three  months' 
practice." 

"  I  thought  you  were  doing  wonderfully."  Mary 
soothed  her.  And  then  Mary,  turning  to  Johnnie 
Hulse  for  confirmation  of  her  statement  that  Inez 
was  doing  wonderfully,  perceived  what  Johnnie 
was  doing.  Her  face  changed  in  a  singular  manner. 
There  was  a  pause,  and  she  said,  glancing  at  the 
clock: 

"  Oh,  I  must  really  go.  I  must  catch  the  nine- 
forty  to-night." 

Everybody  was  amazed. 

"  But  you  never  go  earlier  than  the  ten-forty!  " 
said  Inez. 

79 


THE   GLIMPSE 


This  was  true. 

"  I  must,  truly,  dear!  I'll  just  get  my  things,  if  I 
may." 

Mary  went  quickly  out  of  the  room,  nervous,  ex- 
cited, not  herself.  A  trifle  had  struck  me.  She 
had  called  Inez  "  dear."  Now  Mary  never  ad- 
dressed another  woman  in  that  term,  which  she 
reserved  for  her  daughter.  She  hated  any  sort  of 
effusiveness,  particularly  between  women;  this  to 
the  point  of  an  exterior  harshness.  Yet  she  had 
called  Inez  "  dear."  Proof  sufficient  of  her  discom- 
posure! She  seemed  to'  be  growing  more  femi- 
nine to  me  every  minute. 

A  caprice,  of  course!  The  discovery  that  John- 
nie was  making  a  drawing  of  her  behind  her  back 
had  startled  the  fawn  that  crouched  beneath  that 
intellect  of  hers;  had  made  her  too  conscious  of 
herself  and  of  him.  And  the  fawn  had  fled,  ca- 
priciously, unreflectingly,  into  the  brake. 

Inez  lit  a  cigarette,  and  then  said: 

"  I  must  just  go  and  look  after  her." 

And  Johnnie  and  I  were  left  alone.  We  said  not 
a  word  to  each  other.  We  were  not  quite  at  ease. 
It  was  not  to  be  expected  that  we  should  be.  The 
effect  of  his  individuality  on  Mary's  was  too  patent. 
Mary  was  my  sister:  I  felt  in  a  way  guilty  of  any 
antics  she  might  commit.  Moreover,  great  devel- 

80 


THE   DEPARTURE 


opments,  the  mingling  of  destinies,  might  be  immi- 
nent. There  was  that  in  the  air  which  could  not 
be  hinted  at,  even  between  cronies.  So  we  sat 
silent.  Johnnie  closed  the  sketchbook  and  slipped 
it  back  into  his  pocket. 

After  interminable  minutes  I  rang  the  bell. 

"  I'd  better  take  measures  for  a  taxi,"  I  mut- 
tered. 

"  Yes,"  he  agreed.  "  I  shall  see  her  as  far  as  the 
station." 

"  Oh!  "  said  I.    "  You're  going,  too?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  no  reply  to  the  bell.  I  rang  again. 
Still  no  reply.  Then  I  went  out  impatiently  into 
the  hall,  which  blazed  with  light.  "  Where  is  that 
spectacled  girl? "  I  thought.  The  dining-room 
door  was  ajar,  and  darkness  within;  she  could  not 
be  there.  I  adventured  into  the  kitchen,  which 
was  lit  but  empty.  Curious,  perplexing,  unintelligi- 
ble spot,  the  kitchen!  So  abruptly  different  from 
the  rest  of  civilization.  On  the  white  deal  table  an 
open  book  lay  with  the  pages  downward.  And 
across  the  green  cover  I  read  the  gold  title, 
"  Wormwood."  I  hesitated.  Then  the  door  of  the 
service  stairs  opened  and  Marion  appeared.  She 
was  nearly  breathless,  and  the  sight  of  me  robbed 
her  of  what  breath  she  had. 

81 


THE ,  GLIMPSE 


"  Oh,  sir,"  she  gasped.  "  You  give  me  such  a 
start!" 

It  was  the  first  time  that  I  had  ever  glimpsed  the 
human  being  in  her. 

"  I  want  you  to  get  a  taxi  or  whistle  down  for 
one,  Marion,"  I  said. 

"  I've  just  been,  sir,"  she  answered.  "  Mistress 
told  me  to.  It's  waiting." 

I  regained  the  hall.  I  could  now  hear  Johnnie 
Hulse's  stammering  fingers  on  the  piano. 

"Great  Scott!"  I  thought.  "Are  those  con- 
founded women  going  to  chatter  in  the  bedroom 
forever!  "  I  looked  at  my  watch.  It  meant  noth- 
ing to  me  whether  Mary  caught  the  nine-forty  or 
the  ten-forty.  But,  as  a  matter  of  principle,  I  ob- 
jected to  the  missing  of  trains  and  to  the  careless 
unfulfillment  of  programmes.  The  negligent  for- 
getting of  the  flight  of  time  annoyed  me.  "  What 
on  earth  can  they  be  talking  about?  " 

Without  reflection  I  passed  into  my  study.  This 
room  lay  between  the  bedroom  and  the  drawing- 
room.  It  communicated  with  the  bedroom  by  a 
small  masked  door  and  with  the  drawing-room  by 
a  large  door.  My  directing  thought  must  have 
been  that  I  might  hear  them  chattering  through  the 
thin  masked  door.  But  the  masked  door  was  open 
several  inches  and  there  was  no  sound  of  talking; 
'  82 


THE   DEPARTURE 


I  could,  however,  catch  a  woman's  movements.  I 
waited.  The  piano  had  stopped.  The  door  leading 
to  the  drawing-room  was  nearly  but  not  quite 
closed.  I  approached  it  hesitatingly.  As  I  did  so 
I  faintly  heard  Johnnie's  voice: 

"  He's  gone  to  look  after  the  taxi." 

One  or  other  of  the  women  had,  then,  gone  from 
the  bedroom  into  the  drawing-room  by  way  of  the 
study,  immediately  before  my  entrance  into  the 
study. 

I  heard  Johnnie's  voice,  soft  and  gentle  now. 

"  Then  she'll  be  at  Brondesbury  to-morrow  at 
three?" 

And  the  answer:  "  Yes." 

It  was  Inez  who  had  answered. 

I  said  to  myself:  "  I'd  better  not  let  them  even 
suspect  that  I've  overheard  that."  And  instead  of 
going  in  to  the  drawing-room  direct,  I  went  back 
into  the  hall,  where  I  encountered  Mary,  coming 
from  the  direction  of  the  bedroom.  She  was  self- 
conscious. 

"And  well  you  may  be,  my  child!"  I  thought 
grimly,  sardonically,  with  ironical  malice  that 
equaled  Mary's  own.  Indeed,  women,  even 
one's  sisters,  were  astounding!  Here  Mary  and 
Johnnie  had  both  taken  Inez  into  their  confidence. 
And  Inez  and  Mary  had  been  discussing  ren- 

83 


THE    GLIMPSE 


dezvous  in  the  bedroom!  Why?  What  could  be 
the  significance  of  all  this  whispering  chicane? 
Well,  so  long  as  it  amused  them,  I  should  be  con- 
tent! Mary  and  I  entered  the  drawing-room  to- 
gether. 

Still  the  same  awkwardness  between  all  four  of 
us,  the  same  timidity  in  meeting  one  another's 
eyes! 

"  I'd  sent  for  a  taxi,"  said  Inez  to  me.  "  I  hope 
you  haven't  contrived  to  get  two." 

"  No,"  I  said.    "  That's  all  right." 

The  captain  went  forth  hurriedly  in  search  of 
his  overcoat.  There  was  a  certain  confusion  and 
considerable  hurry.  Mary  accepted  quite  tran- 
quilly the  information  that  Johnnie  meant  to  ac- 
company her  to  her  train,  she  who  had  shrunk  from 
him  because  he  was  including  her  in  a  sketch! 

We  all  went  out  into  the  hanging  gallery  to- 
gether, the  girls  talking.  The  lift,  a  cube  of  light, 
shot  up  at  great  speed  and  stopped  with  a  jerk 
opposite  our  faces.  The  doors  clicked  open,  and 
the  uniformed  infant  stepped  out,  saluting  us  in 
quasi-military  fashion.  Mary  and  the  captain  went 
into  the  lift,  and  the  child  followed,  caging  them 
in,  and  for  an  instant  they  hung  there,  close  to  each 
other,  in  the  intimacy  of  the  lift,  smiling  naively. 
It  seemed  to  me  that  they  were  already  united.  At 

84 


THE   DEPARTURE 


any  rate,  their  sudden  departure  like  that,  with  the 
knowledge  in  their  hearts  of  the  rendezvous  for 
the  morrow  which  Inez  had  doubtless  helped  to 
arrange  during  the  interminable  secret  gossip  in 
the  bedroom,  presented  itself  to  me  as  having 
in  it  something  of  the  irrevocable.  "  And  they  do 
not  suspect  that  I  know!  "  I  reflected.  Though 
why  there  should  be  a  conspiracy  and,  if  a  conspir- 
acy, why  I  should  be  omitted  from  it,  I  could  not 
determine.  Then  the  lift  sank  swiftly  away  and 
the  steel  ropes  trailed  after  it  from  the  ceiling  into 
the  depths. 

We  reentered  the  flat,  Inez  and  myself.  I  went 
straight  to  the  drawing-room,  opened  wide  the 
window  and  stood  out  on  the  balcony.  The  night 
was  warm,  and  high  above  the  gas  lamps  of  the 
square,  higher  even  than  the  balcony,  the  elm  trees 
waved  uneasily,  apprehensively,  in  the  evening 
breeze. 

Underneath  me  I  could  see  the  forward  half  of 
the  roof  of  a  toy  taxicab.  The  other  half  was 
thrown  back.  Three  little  figures,  one  white, 
flashed  across  the  pavement,  and  two  got  into  the 
vehicle,  while  the  third  slammed  the  floor.  I  could 
hear  the  strong,  resonant  voice  of  Johnnie  saying: 

"  Baker  Street." 

And  the  cab  began  to  describe  a  curve,  rounding 
85 


THE   GLIMPSE 


like  a  boat  into  the  middle  of  the  Square  and  so 
toward  Bayswater  Road.  It  moved  silently,  as 
though  creeping  after  prey.  Then,  as  it  approached 
the  thoroughfare,  it  gave  a  stern  double  "  toot," 
and  vanished  into  London.  And  they  were  in  it 
together,  the  opposing  temperaments,  piquantly 
imprisoned.  I  thought:  "  For  him,  at  the  end  of  all 
his  adventures,  Mary — the  prim  and  English  Mary 
— has  become  the  eternal  feminine!  "  And:  "  This 
will  be  far  better  for  her  than  continually  worrying 
about  the  bringing  up  of  her  child.  She's  got  some- 
thing else  to  think  about  now."  I  was  glad.  I  was 
almost  joyous. 


CHAPTER    XI 

THE   THUNDERCLAP 

WHEN  I  reentered  the  room  from  the  bal- 
cony, Inez  was  again  sitting  at  the  piano,  idly 
turning  over  the  pages  of  Ravel's  "  Miroirs."  She 
did  not  look  at  me :  she  gave  no  sign  of  being  aware 
of  my  presence.  There  had  been  a  certain  self-con- 
scious stiffness  in  the  relations  of  the  four  of  us, 
previous  to  the  guests'  departure,  and  this  had  been 
caused  by  the  obvious  effect  of  Johnnie's  personality 
on  Mary's.  Now  a  more  intimate  awkwardness  lay 
between  Inez  and  me.  I  judged  that  it  was  due  to 
the  sense  of  expectation  in  both  our  hearts,  the  sense 
that  a  new  crisis,  a  solemn  and  decisive  movement 
in  our  lives  was  at  hand ;  for  I  was  convinced  from 
her  demeanor  that  Inez  had  divined  in  me  the  birth 
of  a  different  attitude  toward  her.  I  was  nervous, 
and  she  also.  The  future  depended  upon  ourselves ; 
perhaps  it  chiefly  depended  upon  me,  upon  the  tact 
and  the  courage  which  I  should  immediately  dis- 
play. None  could  disturb  us.  I  was  alone,  in  the 
most  favorable  nocturnal  circumstances  of  ease, 

87 


THE   GLIMPSE 


beauty,  and  seclusion,  with  this  beautiful  and  ac- 
complished woman.  Even  the  bright  softness  of  the 
shaded  electricity  descending  on  her  hair  and  her 
nape  and  her  hands,  and  on  the  harmonious  folds  of 
her  gown,  and  on  the  dark  spreading  carpet  around 
her,  was  an  aid  to  the  enterprise;  every  detail  con- 
sented. 

Physical  thoughts  shot  in  and  out  among  the 
graver  in  my  mind.  But  they  were  not  paramount. 
And  my  reason  repudiated  them.  I  now  seemed  to 
envisage  my  enterprise  more  clearly  and  completely, 
though  it  was  still  vague.  I  was  deliberately  to 
seek  my  happiness  in  Inez  and  in  the  imitation  of 
Inez.  I  was  to  occupy  myself  with  this  incom- 
parable instrument  of  various  pleasure  which  I  had 
neglected  for  so  long.  I  was  to  do  again,  and  bet- 
ter, under  the  impulsion  of  reason  what  I  had  once 
done  under  the  impulsion  of  instinct.  I  was  to 
manipulate  my  existence,  to  prove  by  acts  that  reason 
did  reign  in  me.  My  life,  in  that  I  was  daily 
growing  more  unhappy  for  no  assignable  cause,  had 
to  be  reckoned  so  far  a  failure.  But  the  unconquer- 
able in  me  would  not  submit  to  the  increasing  domi- 
nation of  ennui.  I  was  bored ;  I  had  possibly  a  quar- 
ter of  a  century  yet  to  live :  was  I  going  cravenly  to 
submit  to  boredom  during  all  those  years  each  of 
which  would  be  longer  than  the  one  before  it  ?  Was 

88 


THE   THUNDERCLAP 


I  ready  to  acknowledge  so  miserable  a  fiasco  ?    The 
question  answered  itself. 

And  in  my  need  and  my  peril,  I  approached  Inez. 
I  had  been  too  solitary,  too  self-centered,  too  un- 
worldly. I  had  committed  the  insolent  error  of  liv- 
ing in  the  world  as  one  in  a  foreign  country  who 
refuses  to  accept  the  standards  of  that  country.  I 
had  despised  small  things.  I  had  despised  the  pres- 
ent. And  my  attitude  was  guilty  of  intellectual  ar- 
rogance. Inez  was  the  heaven-sent  cure  and 
antidote.  At  its  inception  my  movement  to  her  was 
egoistic.  I  thought  not  of  her  advantage  but  solely 
of  my  own.  I  regarded  her  as  an  instrument.  But, 
as  I  reflected,  my  enterprise  was  tinged  with  the 
beautiful  colors  of  altruism.  I  saw  that,  though  her 
discontent  had  lessened,  while  mine  had  waxed,  she 
must  nevertheless  have  suffered  much.  I  saw  her 
as  forlorn;  and  her  cheerfulness  and  self-satisfaction 
as  a  thin  crust  over  a  horrible  emptiness.  We  had 
both  been  the  victims  of  capricious  love;  but  I  was 
the  stronger,  the  older,  the  wiser — I  with  my  con- 
descending intellectual  power — and  my  intellect 
ought  at  least  to  have  had  the  wit  and  the  justice 
to  devise  the  expression  of  some  sympathy  with  her. 
Because  we  had  ceased  to  love  I  had  found  offense 
in  her.  True  that  she  had  found  offense  in  me!  But 
I  ought  to  have  been  more  rational.  I  wanted  to 

89 


THE   GLIMPSE 


compensate.  I  wanted  to  repair.  Yes,  I  wanted  to 
make  her  happy,  to  envelope  her  with  my  sympathy 
and  comprehension  and  voluntary  affection,  as  with 
an  odor.  All  this  sprang  from  egoism,  from  the 
acute  realization  of  my  own  peril.  But  whatever  its 
origin,  it  was  genuine,  and  it  was  undoubtedly  a 
powerful  medicine  for  my  malady. 

My  feeling  was  less  rapturous  than  first  love ;  but 
it  was  finer.  First  love  seemed  crude,  clumsy,  blind, 
compared  to  it.  I  was  acting  now  in  the  plenitude 
of  reason  and  of  experience.  My  heart  was  mellowed, 
the  sweep  of  my  brain  far  wider.  My  vision  went 
beyond  death,  f  I  knew  that  matter  and  spirit  were 
one  and  were  eternal,  having  never  been  created, 
incapable  of  ever  being  destroyed.  I  knew  that  every 
thought  and  deed  reverberated  in  the  future  with 
everlasting  consequences,  and  that  to  be  true  or  false 
to  the  fleeting  hour  was  to  be  true  or  false  to  eternity. 
In  brief,  I  was  religious. 

Inez  began  to  play,  softly,  a  detached  and  salient 
phrase  from  the  "  Mournful  Birds."  She  repeated 
it  several  times,  and  it  resounded  delicately  in  the 
room,  intensely  sad.  But  it  did  not  sadden  me.  I 
exulted  in  her  interpretation  of  it,  in  her  quick  and 
accurate  responsiveness  to  the  mood  of  the  com- 
poser. I  said  to  myself  again :  "  After  all,  this  wom- 
an is  marvelous.  Look  at  her,  sitting  there — is  she 

90 


THE    THUNDERCLAP 


not  a  miracle  ?  "  I  reflected  how  much  easier  it  was, 
for  a  man  of  my  intellectual  solitude  and  impatience, 
to  live  with  a  creature  like  Inez  than  with  a  creature 
like  Mary.  Mary  was  not  receptive;  she  did  not 
take  impressions.  She  could  not  be  cajded  with  a 
caress  or  a  flattery  or  a  comforting  deviation  from 
the  truth.  She  spent  herself  intellectually,  and  she 
expected  others  to  do  the  same.  She  could  not  leave 
things  alone;  she  would  not  be  put  off.  She  was 
a  rock,  and  when  she  collided  with  other  rocks,  the 
jar  was  afflicting.  I  admired  and  respected  her.  I 
had  a  great  affection  for  her.  But  I  said  to  myself 
that  if  I  had  to  live  with  her  I  should  expire  of 
fatigue  and  loss  of  blood.  Whereas  Inez  could  be 
managed.  Inez  had  none  of  that  terrible  hatred  of 
compromise.  You  might  call  her  intellectually  dis- 
honest; but  it  would  be  fairer  to  say  that  she  at- 
tached no  importance  to  intellect  either  honest  or  dis- 
honest ;  she  perhaps  feared  it  slightly.  She  existed 
among  her  instincts  on  the  aesthetic  and  emotional 
plane.  She  was  never  really  ashamed  of  her  in- 
stincts. Call  her  less  advanced  than  Mary ;  call  her 
nearer  the  savage.  But  what  a  source  of  pleasure 
to  all  the  senses !  What  an  aesthetic  delight !  What 
extreme  skill  she  had  acquired  in  the  expression  of 
the  responsiveness  by  means  of  which  alone  she  could 
satisfy  her  instincts ! 

7  91 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Now,  the  physical  thoughts  which  I  had  repulsed 
gradually  rose  uppermost  in  my  mind.  And  I  did 
not  try  to  repulse  them.  It  seemed  to  me  to  be 
fight,  to  be,  at  any  rate,  inevitable,  that  they  should 
soften  the  hard  operations  of  my  reason.  I  abandoned 
myself  to  them.  She  was  within  ten  feet  of  me,  the 
miracle.  And  suddenly  I  lost  the  sense  of  the  mys- 
teriousness  of  woman,  and  of  Inez  in  particular, 
which  had  been  growing  in  me.  I  knew  that  the 
mysteriousness  of  woman  vanished  the  instant  you 
brutally  faced  it.  Boys  and  aging  celibates  are 
obsessed  by  the  mysteriousness  of  woman.  The  ob- 
session is  a  sign  either  of  immaturity  or  of  morbid- 
ity. The  mysteriousness  of  woman — take  her,  and 
see  then  if  she  is  mysterious!  .  .  . 

How  could  I  begin  my  enterprise  of  reconstruct- 
ing our  two  lives  ?  The  moment  was  pregnant  with 
consequences.  Inez  still  played,  intermittently.  I 
said  to  myself  that  I  must  do  something,  that  I 
must  make  a  start,  and  that  to  postpone  might  be 
fatal.  Some  act,  some  gesture,  some  word,  must  be 
launched  forth.  I  waited  for  myself,  as  for  another. 
And  expectancy  passed  into  an  anguish  of  appre- 
hension. An  enchantment  lay  upon  us. 

It  was  she  who  broke  it,  by  saying,  without  look- 
ing round: 

"  I  wonder  if  they  were  in  time  for  the  train." 
92 


THE   THUNDERCLAP 


I  laughed.  "  If  they  weren't,  it  would  be  no 
new  thing,  for  him,  at  any  rate.  However,"  I  added, 
with  a  touch  of  gay  quizzicalness,  "  you  may  depend 
on  his  being  prompt  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  ?  "  she  questioned,  in  a  peculiar,  un- 
certain tone,  still  without  turning  round. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  • "  At  Brondesbury,  at  three."  As- 
suredly there  was  laughter  in  my  voice.  I  was 
jocund.  I  deemed  it  bizarre — this  rendezvous  be- 
tween Mary  and  Johnnie  at  Brondesbury  at  three, 
this  rendezvous  which  they  had  concealed  from  me, 
but  of  which  Inez  had  been  the  privy  agent.  But  I 
accepted  it  in  excellent  humor,  and  I  saw  no  reason 
why  I  should  hide  my  knowledge  of  it  from  my  wife. 

Then  came  the  thunderclap. 

'  You've  been  listening — you've  been  eaves- 
dropping !  "  she  exclaimed  harshly,  in  the  hoarse 
tone  of  one  who  is  parched  by  thirst.  She  revolved 
on  the  music  stool,  and  faced  me.  She  was  angry, 
acutely  inimical:  to  what  extent  I  did  not  imme- 
diately realize. 

"  My  dear  girl — "  I  murmured,  at  a  loss. 

The  expression  of  her  features  made  me  feel  sick 
with  fear.  I  do  not  exaggerate.  The  whole  pose 
of  her  body  indicated  a  violent  emotion  of  bitter 
hostility  toward  me.  All  her  grace  had  gone.  I 
was  dumfounded.  I  was  completely  mystified.  I 

93 


THE   GLIMPSE 


was  put  to  shame.  I  could  not  think.  Slowly — and 
yet  how  rapidly! — there  formed  itself  in  my  mind 
the  idea  that  I  was  to  be  the  victim  of  some  ir- 
remediable and  astounding  disaster.  The  room  was 
changed  into  a  theater  of  fate,  and  it  seemed  ex- 
traordinary to  me  that  the  electric  light  should  be 
burning  as  usual. 

"  Don't !  "  Inez  cried.  "  I  won't  stand  any  more. 
I  won't  stand  it!  I  told  Johnnie  all  along  you 
guessed.  But  he  wouldn't  believe  me.  How  long 
have  you  known  ?  " 

"Known  what?" 

She  answered  in  a  smothered  voice,  looking  at 
the  carpet :  "  About  Johnnie  and  me." 

I  offered  no  reply.  I  could  not  speak.  The  whole 
feverish  energy  of  my  brain  was  employed  in  a 
tremendous  readjustment  of  all  my  notions  of  the 
immediate  past  and  of  that  evening.  I  was  like  a 
man  who  has  stumbled  on  a  cipher  key  which  turns 
a  series  of  harmless  and  agreeable  phrases  into  some 
dire  and  convincing  prophecy  of  woe.  I  said  noth- 
ing. I  was  aware  of  a  terrific  desire  to  rise  and 
wrench  the  electric  chandelier  out  of  the  ceiling,  and 
with  it  to  destroy  everything  fragile  in  the  room. 
By  an  immense,  a  too  costly  effort,  I  restrained  my- 
self, for  I  surmised  that  if  I  yielded  to  the  desire  I 
should  rave  into  madness.  I  sat  still. 

94 


THE   THUNDERCLAP 


I  had  remembered  a  habit  of  Johnnie  Hulse's. 
When  he  wished  to  cajole,  to  be  tender,  he  would 
address  a  woman  in  the  third  person,  as  one  ad- 
dresses a  charming  child.  I  had  heard  him  do 
it  more  than  once;  I  well  recall  one  occasion  in 
the  promenade  of  the  Ottoman  Theater  of  Va- 
rieties. 

"  Cur !  "  she  said,  blazing  on  me.  "  I  wonder  you 
weren't  ashamed.  .  .  .  No,  I  don't!  I  don't!  .  .  . 
Keeping  up  all  this  pretense  that  you  thought  it  was 
Mary  he  was  keen  on!  And  then  asking  him  to 
dinner  on  the  top  of  everything!  And  keeping  it 
up  all  the  evening,  like  you  did !  .  .  .  Well,  it  serves 
you  right!  But  you  needn't  think  I  didn't  know! 
I  felt  it  all  the  time.  Johnnie  thought  he  had  per- 
suaded me  I  was  wrong,  and  I  tried  to  be  persuaded. 
But  I  never  was !  I  never  was !  I've  known  for 
days  you  knew.  I  expect  you  thought  yourself 
frightfully  clever  and  superior — horrid  old  cat  play- 
ing with  two  mice.  Well,  you  weren't  so  clever  as 
you  imagined.  I  knew  you  knew !  I  knew !  And  I 
didn't  care !  And  I  don't  care !  " 

She  paused.  Then  she  exploded  in  supreme  scorn- 
ful disgust : 

"It  was  just  like  you!" 

She  did  not  move.  Nor  did  I.  All  the  faces  in 
all  the  pictures  seemed  to  wait. 

95 


THE    GLIMPSE 


A  voice  which  issued  from  my  lips  said  coldly  to 
Inez: 

"  You  are  very  melodramatic.  I  did  not  know. 
I  knew  nothing.  I  suspected  nothing  at  all.  I  did 
by  mere  accident  overhear  him  saying :  '  Will  she  be 
at  Brondesbury  at  three  ?  '  But  I  thought  he  meant 
Mary,  because  I  had  Mary  in  my  mind." 

She  shook  her  head  violently,  determined  to  dis- 
believe. 

'  You've  simply  given  yourself  away,"  said  the 
same  cold  voice. 

("  It  is  astonishing,"  I  thought,  "  that  I  should  be 
talking  calmly  like  this.  Has  something  snapped  in 
my  head?") 

She  would  have  given  worlds  to  be  able  to  con- 
tinue to  disbelieve,  to  be  able  to  condemn  me  in  her 
heart  as  an  icy  and  devilish  mocking  monster  of 
horrible  guile.  But  she  could  not.  She  remained 
silent. 

'  You've  simply  given  yourself  away,"  the  voice 
numbly  repeated. 

"Well,"  she  rasped.  "What  if  I  have!  Now 
you  know !  And  I'm  glad !  " 

She  jumped  up  from  the  music  stool,  turned  on 
her  heel,  flung  back  the  tail  of  her  skirt  with  a  char- 
acteristic gesture,  and  walked  slowly  and  proudly 
from  the  room  into  the  study,  the  door  of  which  was 

96 


THE   THUNDERCLAP 


still  ajar.  Her  skirt  followed  her,  as  it  were  reluc- 
tantly, round  the  jamb  of  the  doorway  and  vanished. 
The  door  banged.  I  was  alone  with  the  furniture 
and  the  hangings  and  the  pictures,  and  all  these  dead 
things  had  life,  were  tingling  and  trembling  to  the 
thunderclap.  Only  I  was  calm  and  cold. 


CHAPTER   XII 

IN   THE   STUDY 

THE  classic  deceived  husband,  fatuously 
blind:  I  had  been  that!  How  often  in  my 
life  had  I  smiled  at  the  proverbial  philosophy  of 
those  artists  in  adultery,  the  French,  who  postu- 
late the  stupid  vanity  of  the  male  spouse;  su- 
periorly thinking  that  no  matter  what  wife  I  might 
have  chanced  to  marry,  that  particular  mishap 
could  never  overtake  me  unawares! 

There  it  was! 

I  saw  everything  in  a  new  light.  There  was 
nothing  in  the  recent  behavior  of  Captain  Hulse 
and  Inez  which  did  not  seem  to  contribute  proof 
of  their  guilt.  Even  the  sudden  throwing  up  of  her 
hands  when  she  was  reading  Ravel's  music — how 
unlike  her  that  was,  really!  It  had  always  been  a 
point  of  honor  with  her  never  to  stop  when  she 
had  once  begkn  to  read  music  at  sight,  until  some- 
how she  arrived  triumphant  at  the  end.  That  she 
should  have  so  thrown  up  her  hands  was  absolute 
proof  of  inquietude  due  to  some  recondite  cause. 

98 


IN    THE   STUDY 


Undoubtedly,  the  tenor  of  the  evening  had  affected 
her  profoundly.  The  situation,  aggravated  by  her 
secret  conviction  that  my  ignorance  of  it  was  as- 
sumed, had  lacerated  her  nerves  till  she  scarcely 
knew  what  she  was  doing.  And  I  had  not  sus- 
pected! Her  silences,  her  baffling  demeanor,  her 
self-consciousness  had  been  due  not  in  the  slight- 
est degree  to  her  preoccupation  concerning  my 
new  attitude  toward  her,  but  to  something  quite 
other.  It  was  certain  that  she  had  not  perceived 
any  change  in  my  attitude  toward  her.  She  had, 
of  course,  not  guessed  that  I  was  conceiving  new 
lives  for  us  both.  And  I  had  not  suspected!  Im- 
becile egotism! 

Those  two  had  swathed 'and  swathed*  me  in  de- 
ceit. They  had,  for  example,  taken  advantage  of 
my  na'ive  interest  in  the  fact  that  Johnnie  had  im- 
pressed my  sister.  Johnnie,  at  any  rate,  had  judi- 
ciously fostered  in  me  the  illusion  that  the  attrac- 
tion was  mutual.  He  had  utilized  my  sister  as  a 
cover  for  my  wife.  Or,  at  any  rate,  he  had  seen  no 
reason  why  he  should  deprive  himself  of  my  sis- 
ter's diverting  tongue  because  he  happened  to  be 
making  love  to  my  wife.  How  preposterous  ever 
to  have  supposed  that  a  man  like  Johnnie  would 
make  love  to  a  woman  like  my  sister — with  her 
ideas!  Yet  I  had  supposed  it.  How  audaciously 

99 


THE   GLIMPSE 


and  how  successfully  he  had  practiced  on  my  sim- 
plicity! I  could  hear  him  discreetly  hinting  to 
Inez,  in  the  drawing-room,  before  Mary  had  come 
and  before  I  had  come,  that  he  should  "  play  up  " 
to  Mary  for  my  benefit  during  the  evening.  I 
could  catch  the  calm  cynicism  of  his  tone.  .  .  . 
All  the  subsequent  self-consciousness,  which  I  had 
set  down  to  a  general  perception  of  a  nascent  pas- 
sion between  Johnnie  and  Mary,  had  sprung  from 
an  origin  infinitely  more  complex.  Nay,  more!  I 
could  believe  now  that  Mary's  sudden  departure 
might  have  been  owing  to  a  lightning  of  the  truth 
in  her  mind.  Woman's  intuition,  and  so  forth! 
Who  could  say? 

And  I  had  celebrated  the  occasion  with  cham- 
pagne. 

Of  course  Johnnie's  conduct  was  infamous.  It 
would  have  been  infamous  without  the  astounding 
insult  to  my  sister.  That  made  it  merely  ineffable. 
Yes,  but  in  my  heart  I  did  not  feel  it  to  be  infa- 
mous. I  could  not,  to  myself,  argue  like  a  fash- 
ionable K.  C.  in  the  Divorce  Court.  My  opinion  of 
Johnnie  as  a  man  of  honor  scarcely  fell.  So  far  as 
Johnnie  was  concerned  I  regarded  my  case  as  the 
case  of  some  third  person.  I  knew  that  the  code 
of  honor  does  not  run  in  the  kingdom  of  passion.  In 
that  kingdom  everything  became  suddenly  "  dif- 

100 


IN   THE   STUDY 


ferent,"  all  laws  being  abrogated.  I  knew  that 
Johnnie  would  not  be  ashamed.  He  would  be  an- 
noyed when  he  knew  of  Inez's  confession ;  he  would 
sympathize  with  me.  But  he  would  not  blush.  I 
knew  that  no  man  whose  mind  was  broad  and  vig- 
orous enough  for  me  to  respect  it,  would  refuse  to 
take  the  hand  of  Johnnie  Hulse  because  the  dog 
had  made  his  intimate  friend  a  cuckold.  Useless 
to  talk  about  ruining  a  home,  outraging  hospital- 
ity, base  deceit,  flagrant  immorality!  Phrases! 
Phrases!  Unsupported  by  the  genuine  opinion  of 
either  men  or  women.  She  loved  him;  she  had 
ceased  to  love  me.  Her  life  was  a  desert  with  me ;  he 
was  the  oasis  to  slake  her  thirst  for  romantic 
sympathy.  Hence,  all  was  permitted,  all  was  ex- 
cusable. 

Do  you  know  what  I  resented  more  than  any- 
thing? Her  solicitude  in  the  bedroom  when  she 
learned  that  I  had  forgotten  my  tea !  Her  "  Mor- 
rice!  "  half  petulant  and  half  maternal!  Her  "  my 
poor  boy,"  ditto!  Her  good-humored,  reproachful 
raised  ringer  when  I  came  late  into  the  drawing- 
room  for  dinner!  Shameful  acting!  Acting  beyond 
the  bounds  of  cynicism!  And  if  all  this  was  not 
acting,  if  it  came  naturally  to  her,  then  it  was  even 
worse;  it  was  immoral  in  a  deep  and  universal 
sense,  surpassing  the  sexual. 

101 


THE    GLIMPSE 


Why  Brondesbury?  Had  the  fellow  got  a  sec- 
ond gargonniere  (oh,  language  of  the  French,  we 
could  not  do  without  you,  in  these  matters!)  up  at 
Brondesbury?  If  so,  the  choice  of  Brondesbury 
was  a  fair  example  of  the  wild  and  yet  wise  humor 
which  pervaded  his  amorous  life!  But  he  had 
never  breathed  the  quaint  name  of  Brondesbury 
to  me!  .  .  .  Well,  naturally! 

Perhaps  she  was  not  yet  his  mistress.  I  did  not 
know.  I  knew  naught  save  that  they  were  presum- 
ably all  in  all  to  each  other.  And  I  should  never 
inquire.  Words  give  existence  to  things.  In  some 
circumstances  speech  is  morbid,  and  the  desire  for 
speech  a  demonstration  of  weakness. 

Well,  she  had  caught  him,  too!  He,  too,  was 
down  at  her  level,  forced  into  all  the  pretenses  and 
self-deceptions  which  are  inevitable  when  intelli- 
gence must  subordinate  itself  to  instinct.  I  pitied 
him — him  a  distinguished  artist,  a  powerful  and 
original  individuality,  my  equal,  creatively  far 
more  than  my  equal. 

I  had  indeed  chosen  a  suitable  moment  to  ex- 
pend my  sympathy  upon  her,  to  occupy  myself 
with  the  question  of  her  happiness,  and  even  the 
question  of  her  eternal  welfare !  My  heart  had  been 
sending  out  to  her  waves  of  human  affection;  my 
conscience* had  been  exercised  concerning  my  ob- 

102 


IN   THE   STUDY 


ligations  to  her.  I  had  drawn  close  to  her.  I  had 
dissolved  in  tenderness.  I  had  excused  her.  I  had 
reprimanded  myself.  I  was  plotting  her  bliss.  And, 
the  while,  she  and  Johnnie  were  all  in  all  to  each 
other.  Reward  of  virtue!  Reward  of  fatuity! 

I  knew  that  my  case  was  hopeless  now.  The 
sole  way  of  escape  was  gone.  I  was  ruined, 
beaten.  I  should  have  to  acknowledge  my  life  a 
fiasco.  Nothing  could  save  me  from  that  humilia- 
tion, nor  avert  the  disaster  of  the  middle  age  and  old 
age.  I  had  just  to  set  my  teeth — and  exist.  There 
is  a  certain  satisfaction  in  hopefulness  amidst  the 
extreme  of  misery.  You  press  it  to  you,  as  the 
martyr  clutched  the  burning  fagot.  You  enjoy 
it.  You  savor  piquantly  your  woe,  your  shame, 
your  abjectness,  the  failure  of  your  philosophy. 
You  celebrate  the  perdition  of  the  man  in  you. 
You  want  to  talk  about  it  brazenly;  even  to  exag- 
gerate it,  and  to  swagger  over  it.  Neither  in  the 
world,  nor  in  my  sanctuary,  could  I  distinguish  any 
ray  of  promise.  I  abandoned  myself  to  despair  and 
bitterness,  as  to  the  bosom  of  a  woman.  I  saw  the 
years  passing  slowly  over  me  as  I  lay  supine. 

Then  I  heard  a  faint  regular  sound  of  sobbing, 
which  came  from  the  study.  Instead  of  retiring  to 
the  bedroom,  as  she  ought  to  have  done,  Inez  had 
halted  in  my  study,  and  was  making  a  foolish  scene 

103 


THE   GLIMPSE 


there  by  herself  to  herself.  I  had  a  desire  to  go  to 
her.  But  I  thought  angrily :  "  No.  I  won't  go  near 
her.  She  can  blubber  there  all  night  for  all  I  care." 
Still,  I  had  a  desire  to  go  to  her.  Perhaps  it  was 
to  triumph  over  her;  perhaps  it  was  to  show  her 
with  calm  impartiality  how  far  I  was  above  her; 
perhaps  it  was  to  clutch  my  fagot;  or  perhaps  it 
was  the  mere  housemaidish  hankering  to  talk,  talk, 
repeating  the  same  idea  a  thousand  times,  when 
words  are  viciously  futile. 

I  rose.  A  force  within  me  was  driving  me  toward 
her.  My  movements  were  curiously  clumsy.  I 
had  a  strong  recurrence  of  my  former  impulse  to 
wrench  down  the  electric  chandelier.  But  again  I 
refrained,  I  yawned.  Glancing  at  myself  in  the 
mirror  of  the  overmantel,  I  saw  nothing  abnormal 
in  my  appearance.  It  did  not  appear  to  me  that  I 
was  even  paler  than  usual.  I  opened  the  study 
door,  full  of  morbid  curiosity.  My  limbs  continued 
to  be  very  maladroit  in  executing  the  orders  of  my 
brain. 

The  electricity  was  not  turned  on  in  the  study, 
but  through  the  uncurtained  window  there  came 
enough  diffused  luminosity  to  show  dimly  the  various 
objects  in  the  room.  At  first  I  did  not  see  her, 
for  at  the  noise  of  the  door  she  had  ceased  sob- 
bing. Then  I  distinguished  her  form,  at  the  desk. 

104 


IN   THE   STUDY 


She  was  seated  in  my  writing  chair ;  her  left  elbow 
was  on  the  desk  and  her  head  lay  on  her  left  hand. 
She  had  chosen  my  writing  chair,  in  which  no  one 
ever  sat  but  me,  for  weeping;  she  was  weeping  on 
my  blotting  pad!  It  was,  I  thought,  just  like  a 
woman.  But  perhaps  she  did  not  know  what  she 
was  doing. 

I  pulled  at  the  little  electric  knob,  and  a  cascade 
of  light  descended  upon  her.  I  meant  to  avoid 
the  sentimentality  of  twilight  scenes.  Now  I  could 
see  the  tear  marks  below  her  eyes. 

Without  moving  her  head  to  look  at  me,  she 
began  to  speak,  and  at  the  sound  of  her  voice,  her 
sobs  recommenced,  breaking  up  her  sentences. 

"  It's  no  use,"  she  whimpered.  "  I  couldn't 
stand  it  any  longer  ...  I  couldn't  stand  it.  ... 
You  don't  know.  .  .  .  You  think  you  know  every- 
thing, but  you  don't.  ...  A  woman  like  me  can't 
do  without  love.  .  .  .  I've  stood  it  too  long  .  .  . 
getting  up  in  the  morning  with  the  feeling  that  no 
man  in  the  world  was  thinking  about  me — was 
neither  happy  nor  unhappy  because  of  me.  .  .  . 
How  many  years  have  I  stood  that?  .  .  .  Do  you 
suppose  I  got  used  to  it?  ...  Never!  And  I 
never  should!  Not  if  I  was  a  hundred!  .  .  .  You 
don't  understand  what  my  life  is.  ...  You  don't 
understand  life  at  all." 

I05 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"  I  understand  what  common  sense  is,"  I  said 
calmly.  "  What  good  do  you  think  you're  doing 
by  talking  like  a  schoolgirl?  Damn  it!  You're 
thirty-four.  You  know  as  well  as  I  do  that  I've  al- 
ways done  the  decent  thing  by  you — and  am  7 
blaming  you  for  gallivanting  with  your  friend  the 
captain?  It's  your  affair.  What  good  can  you 
possibly  do  by  talking  about  it — at  any  rate  to 
me?" 

"  Decent  thing  by  me!  "  she  exclaimed,  before  I 
had  finished  speaking.  "  Never!  You  never  did  the 
decent  thing  by  me!  You  never  thought  of  any 
soul  on  this  earth  except  yourself.  .  .  .  You  never 
really  thought  of  anything  but  your  work." 

"  Well,"  I  put  in,  with  a  short,  condescending 
laugh,  "  work  is  work!" 

"  What's  your  work  to  me? "  she  went  on. 
"  You  took  me.  And  then  you  left  me  to  take  care 
of  myself  while  you  worked.  Even  when  you  were 
kissing  me  you  thought  about  your  work.  Do  you 
think  I  couldn't  see  it  in  your  eyes?  Your  work 
was  more  important  to  you  than  any  woman — any 
human  creature.  .  .  .  Work's  all  very  well  for  you. 
.  .  .  But  even  you  only  worked  because  something 
made  you.  .  .  .  Everybody  doesn't  want  to  work. 
...  It  depends  how  you're  born.  .  .  .  What's 
your  work  to  me?  ...  What  good  did  it  ever  do 

106 


IN   THE   STUDY 


to  me?  ...  It  isn't  I  who'm  famous.  ...  It 
isn't  I  that  people  bow  down  to,  and  that  the  news- 
papers talk  about.  ...  I  haven't  got  a  great  brain, 
and,  what's  more,  I  don't  want  one.  All  that  I 
want  is  for  some  one  to  be  thinking  about  me!  " 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  so  desperately  miser- 
able," I  said.  "  You've  had  everything  you've 
asked  for,  anyhow,  for  a  long  time  now!  "  ("  The 
worst  of  women,"  I  reflected  crossly,  "  is  that  they 
make  you  talk  when  you  don't  want  to.")  I  added 
aloud,  in  spite  of  myself:  "  I  always  did  everything 
I  could  for  you." 

"  I  haven't  had  everything  I  wanted!  "  she  cried. 
"  And  you  never  did  do  everything  you  could  for 
me!  ...  You  never  sacrificed  a  single  half  hour 
of  your  work  for  me!  .  .  .  Because  you  honestly 
thought  with  your  fearful  selfishness  that  your 
work  was  more  important  than  your  wife." 

I  shrugged  my  shoulders.  She  did  not  shift  her 
gaze  from  the  door  communicating  with  the  bed- 
room. Her  right  hand  drummed  hysterically  on 
the  desk.  I  looked  away,  and  my  eye  caught  the 
little  masterpiece  of  Johnnie  Hulse,  which  hung 
near  the  door  where  I  stood. 

"  You'd  much  better  not  excite  yourself,"  I 
murmured.  "  You'd  much  better  go  to  bed — in- 
stead of  stopping  here." 

8  107 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"  And  there's  another  thing,"  she  burst  out,  ig- 
noring my  advice.  "  Supposing  Johnnie  and  I  do 
care  for  each  other?  .  .  .  Whose  fault  is  that?  " 

"  No  doubt,  mine,"  I  said  frigidly. 

"  Not  yours,  and  not  anybody's!  .  .  .  If  you  fall 
in  love,  you  fall  in  love,  and  there  you  are!  .  .  . 
When  you  fell  in  love  with  me — who  asked  you  to? 
You  couldn't  help  it.  Neither  could  I.  ...  We 
just  did  what  we  had  to  do.  ...  And  when  we 
didn't  care  for  each  other  any  more,  we  couldn't 
help  that  either!  If  either  you  or  I  had  been  mar- 
ried when  we  first  met,  would  that  have  made  any 
difference?  Would  you  have  left  me  alone?  You 
know  it  wouldn't,  but  you  haven't  got  the  moral 
pluck  to  say  so.  Nobody  preached  at  you  when 
you  had  rheumatic  fever  and  made  everyone  mis- 
erable for  weeks  and  weeks.  .  .  .  Nobody  said 
you  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself  for  having 
rheumatic  fever,  because,  of  course,  you  couldn't 
help  it.  ...  Well,  can  Johnnie  and  I  help  it?  ... 
It's  just  luck  if  you  don't  happen  to  fall  in  love 
with  some  one  you  oughtn't  to  fall  in  love  with. 
And,  naturally,  it's  always  the  lucky  people  who 
preach!" 

"  I'm  not  preaching,"  I  said  politely.  "  You've 
got  your  religion — I  expect  you  know  what  you're 
about." 

108 


IN    THE   STUDY 


"  Don't  talk  about  my  religion,"  she  protested. 
"  That's  another  thing.  You  always  make  fun  of 
my  religion.  And  if  I  were  to  die  now,  I  should 
die  in  mortal  sin,  because  I  didn't  go  to  mass  last 
Sunday.  I  saw  him  instead.  .  .  .  And  that's  what 
love  is  to  me!  And  I  don't  care  if  I  do  die  in  mor- 
tal sin.  .  .  .  But  you  don't  understand.  You 
can't.  You're  too  cold.  .  .  .  You  only  understand 
semiquavers." 

I  smiled  and  moved  toward  the  drawing-room. 
"  I  ought  never  to  have  left  it,"  I  said  to  myself. 
It  seemed  inconceivable  that  only  a  few  minutes 
earlier  I  had  meant  to  be  kissing  this  Inez. 

"  I'll  leave  you,"  I  said.  "  All  I  have  to  say,  and 
all  I  shall  say,  is  that  I  should  have  thought  you 
or  Captain  Hulse  would  have  had  more  common 
sense,  to  put  it  no  higher.  Not  to  mention  the 
scandal,  you're  simply  making  misery  for  your- 
selves. And  the  funny  thing  is  that  you  know  it. 
You  aren't  such  a  fool  as  not  to  be  able  to  see 
that.  And  I'm  certain  he  isn't!  And  what  are  you 
doing  it  for — because  you  can't  help  it?  .  .  . 
You'll  excuse  me  saying  it,  but  you  make  me  sick 
with  your  infantile'  arguments.  Sick!  " 

I  could  feel  anger  rising  within  me  again.  And 
I  scorned  both  of  them  intensely  for  their  vulgar 
disregard  of  their  own  dignity,  and  for  that  decency 

109 


THE   GLIMPSE 


the  maintenance  of  which  was  to  me  perhaps  the 
most  sacred  of  civilized  obligations.     I  turned. 

"Morrice!" 

She  now  looked  at  me. 

"Well?" 

:<  I've  never — Johnnie  and  I — you  know  what  I 
mean " 

"  Been  his  mistress?  " 

"Never!  I  swear  it!"  She  gave  a  grandiose 
gesture. 

"  I'd  sooner  you'd  be  his  mistress  than  be  melo- 
dramatic," I  replied.  "  What  do  I  care  whether 
you've  been  his  mistress  or  not?  I  neither  believe 
you  nor  disbelieve  you.  Besides,  to-morrow,  at 
Brondesbury,  at  three  .  .  ." 

I  raised  my  hands.  The  sarcasm  in  them  cut  her 
to  fury. 

'  You  think  yourself  very  clever,"  she  almost 
shrieked.  "  I  wish  you  could  hear  Johnnie  make 
fun  of  you,  just  for  five  minutes!  Oh,  I  wish  you 
could!" 

The  immense  and  cruel  injustice  of  which  I  was 
the  victim  filled  me  with  a  cyclonic  resentment.  I 
had  a  tremendous  desire  to  snatch  down  Hulse's 
painting  from  the  wall  and  smash  it  to  pieces.  But 
I  refrained.  I  controlled  myself.  The  picture  was 
beautiful,  masterful.  Better  possibly  for  me  if  I 

no 


IN    THE    STUDY 


had  not  kept  such  a  rein  on  myself!  Better  if  I  had 
exploded!  I  moved  farther  toward  the  drawing- 
room;  that  is  to  say,  I  meant  to  move,  but  did  not. 
Then  I  meant  to  speak — it  was  an  appeal  for  help 
— but  did  not.  Then  I  was  conscious  of  the  most 
acute  physical  pain,  and  I  fell  to  the  floor.  Only 
afterwards  did  I  learn  that  this  intolerable,  suffo- 
cating, stabbing  pain  was  caused  by  a  paroxysm  of 
the  heart 


CHAPTER    XIII 

THE   DOCTOR 

SEND  for  the  doctor,"  I  implored  her,  speaking 
in  gasps  with  the  greatest  difficulty.  "  I'm 
dying." 

I  knew  that  some  great  physical  disaster  had  hap- 
pened to  me  and  that  I  was  dying.  I  knew  that  I 
could  not  bear  for  very  long  the  intense,  almost  in- 
credible pains  that  had  seized  me  about  the  region 
of  my  heart.  There  were  loud  reverberations  in  my 
head. 

Inez's  face  was  transfigured  by  alarm.  Her  first 
impulse  was,  of  course,  to  raise  me  from  the  ground. 
"  No,  no!  "  I  begged  feebly,  like  a  tortured  child. 
Our  relations  were  now  utterly  changed.  I  had  for- 
gotten everything  except  my  bodily  organism, 
which  alone  interested  me.  I  had  no  strength,  and 
she  had  much  strength.  I  would  have  descended  to 
any  moral  abjection  in  order  to  persuade  her  not  to 
use  her  strength  in  ways  contrary  to  my  instinct  of 
self-preservation.  And  that  instinct  was  to  remain 
exactly  as  I  was.  I  was  supporting  the  upper  part 

112 


THE   DOCTOR 


of  my  body  on  my  two  arms,  my  face  being  a  few 
inches  from  the  carpet  and  my  legs  twisted  under 
me.  I  breathed  very  quickly,  in  short  breaths.  I 
was  afraid  to  breathe.  All  my  muscles  were  tense 
in  the  effort  of  bearing  the  pain.  Rapidly,  wildly, 
between  two  breaths,  I  despairingly  begged : 

"Doctor!" 

She  hesitated,  and  then,  rising  from  her  bent  pos- 
ture, ran  from  the  room.  The  pain  extended  down 
my  left  arm.  But  I  dared  not  move.  I  could  hear 
her  at  the  telephone,  speaking  in  a  low,  excited 
tone. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  whispered  to  myself.  "  That's  it. 
That's  it.  Quick!  Quick!  I  can't  stand  it  much 
longer." 

I  heard  Inez  saying  at  the  telephone:  "  Is  that 
you,  doctor  ?  .  .  .  Yes,  at  once. ' .  .  .  In  a  cab,  please. 
His  heart — something." 

"  That's  right!  "  I  whispered  to  myself.  "  He's 
at  home.  What  luck!  What  luck!  " 

A  door  shut  sharply,  and  there  was  a  complete 
silence.  I  guessed  that  Inez  was  calling  the  servants, 
who  had  probably  gone  to  bed.  When  she  returned 
to  me,  I  lifted  a  little  my  humiliated  head.  The  pain 
had  slightly  diminished ;  but  it  was  still  what  is  com- 
monly called  intolerable. 

"  I  must  sit  in  a  chair,"  I  entreated.     Sfie  was 


THE    GLIMPSE 


omnipotent.     She  had  me  at  her  mercy.     My  eyes 
appealed  to  her  like  the  eyes  of  a  slave. 

"  Better  lie  down,"  she  suggested,  with  the  in- 
tensely irritating  wise  kindness  of  all-powerful  all- 
wisdom. 

"No,  no!"  I  besought.  "Easy-chair!  ...  I 
must  lean  forward." 

She  assisted  me  to  an  easy-chair.  I  sank  into  it, 
and  with  my  right  arm  pressed  against  its  arm,  I 
leaned  forward  over  it,  sideways.  The  pain  in- 
creased, and  then  diminished  again,  irregularly.  My 
breathing  continued  to  be  very  rapid  and  shallow. 

"  Some  brandy  ?  "  she  suggested. 

I  shook  my  head.  "  Wait !  wait !  "  I  whispered 
impatiently.  I  could  scarcely  believe  that  the  pain 
was  lessening.  The  fact  seemed  too  good  to  be 
true.  But  it  was  true.  I  emitted  an  "  Ah!  " 

Inez  kneeled  in  front  of  me,  and  held  my  left 
hand. 

"Is  he  coming?"  I  whispered. 

She  nodded  encouragingly. 

"  Good !  "  I  whispered.  But  I  was  not  in  the 
slightest  degree  reassured.  I  knew  that  I  was  dying. 
I  had  no  hope  of  the  doctor.  But  I  wanted  to  die 
properly,  with  the  minimum  of  torture  and  of  igno- 
rant clumsiness. 

"  Bring  me  a  mirror !  "  I  said. 
114 


THE   DOCTOR 


As  the  pain  slowly  decreased,  her  moral  empire 
over  me  decreased.  I  did  not  feel  so  dependent 
upon  her. 

"A  mirror?"  she  questioned. 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  Hand  glass — anything.  I  want 
to  see  myself.  .  .  .  Go  on !  "  I  added  commandingly, 
as  she  faltered.  Owing  to  the  extraordinary  rever- 
berations in  my  head,  I  could  only  hear  indistinctly 
even  my  own  words. 

She  went  into  the  bedroom  and  came  back  with 
a  hand  mirror,  and  held  it  so  that  I  could  see  my 
face.  My  face  was  pale,  with  a  curious  flush  under 
the  wild  eyes,  and  glistening  with  perspiration.  My 
hands,  too,  perspired.  Yet  I  was  chilled  to  the  mar- 
row. I  gazed  long  at  my  image,  at  the  poor,  drawn, 
beaten,  condemned,  undignified  figure,  trying  some- 
how to  rend  its  secret.  Then  I  shut  my  eyes. 

"  He'll  be  here  in  a  minute,"  said  Inez. 

"  I'm  so  cold,"  I  said. 

She  fetched  an  eiderdown  from  the  bedroom,  and 
dropped  it  gently  over  my  shoulders. 

"  That's  better !  "  I  said.  "  I'm  better,  I'm  a  little 
better." 

So  I  was,  but  I  only  told  her  in  order  to  prevent 
her  from  worrying  me  with  remedial  offers.  I  de- 
sired peace.  Though  I  suffered  less,  I  still  knew  that 
I  was  dying.  The  mirror  had  confirmed  that. 


THE   GLIMPSE 


The  doctor  arrived.  His  cab  was  not  overset  en 
route,  nor  did  anything  untoward  happen  to  him. 
He  arrived,  and  within  a  space  of  time  which  even 
to  me  did  not  appear  outrageously  long.  I  caught 
a  murmur  of  voices  outside  the  study  door;  Inez 
ran  to  the  door;  and  then  the  doctor  entered,  clad 
in  his  eternal  frock  coat,  and  trousers  that  were 
round,  like  stovepipes,  quite  ignoring  the  indispen- 
sable crease  down  the  front.  He  was  the  doctor  of 
the  days  of  my  poverty,  and  had  a  fatiguing  and  un- 
remunerative  suburban  practice  in  the  region  of 
Netting  Hill.  I  had  retained  him  in  my  prosperity, 
partly  because  he  was  a  very  clever  man  of  wide- 
reaching  experience,  partly  because  I  thought  that 
he  "  understood  "  me,  partly  because  it  appeared  to 
me  unjust  to  deprive  him  of  a  client ;  but  chiefly  be- 
cause I  appreciated  his  dry,  crackling,  sardonic  tem- 
perament and  his  curt  attitude  to  humanity.  More- 
over, he  had  a  secret  passion  for  music.  Once,  when 
I  had  called  on  him,  we  had  played  some  pianoforte 
duets  together.  If  he  could  have  concealed  more  ef- 
fectually his  sardonic  pleasure  in  the  droll  spectacle 
of  mankind,  he  would  have  been  a  wealthy  practi- 
tioner, spending  half  his  time  in  an  electric  brough- 
am. His  "  bedside  manner  "  could  only  please  a 
philosopher.  He  had  reached  the  age  of  fifty,  and 
had  lost  nothing  but  hair.  He  always  spoke  in  an 

116 


THE   DOCTOR 


exceedingly  quiet  voice — so  quiet  sometimes  as  to 
be  scarcely  audible. 

I  said  nothing  as  he  approached  me,  bending 
down. 

"  Can  you  hear  anything  going  on  in  your  head  ?  " 
he  inquired  mildly. 

"  Can't  hear  anything  else,"  I  replied  grimly. 

"Urn!" 

"What  is  it?" 

"  Cardiac  murmur,"  he  said.  He  was  examining 
me.  "  No  need  to  take  your  clothes  off  to  examine 
you.  Could  hear  it  a  mile  off.  You'll  be  better 
soon."  Then  he  glanced  at  my  wife  through  his 
glittering  gold-rimmed  spectacles.  :*  We  shall  want 
some  hot-water  bags." 

"  I've  had  water  put  on  to  boil,"  said  Inez. 

"  Got  any  mustard  leaves  ?  " 

She  reflected.     "Yes." 

"  Um !  You  might  let  me  have  two  or  three  hot- 
water  bags  as  quickly  as  you  can  and  as  hot  as 
you  can." 

"  Must  we  get  him  to  bed  ?  "  she  asked. 

"No,  no!"  said  the  doctor.  "He  mustn't  be 
moved  yet." 

And  I  thought:  "  What  did  I  tell  you?  Didn't  I 
tell  you?" 

Inez  departed.    The  doctor  felt  my  pulse. 
117 


THE    GLIMPSE 


:'What  is  it?"  I  asked. 

"  A  hundred  and  sixty/'  he  answered  after  a 
pause. 

"I  mean — what's  up?" 

"  Well,"  he  said,  "  angina  pectoris.  But  you're 
getting  better  every  second.  I  suppose  you've  had 
a  shock,  my  boy  ?  What's  happened  ?  " 

I  was  disinclined  to  talk ;  that  is  to  say,  I  wished 
only  to  ask  questions,  not  to  answer  them.  How- 
ever, I  said  gloomily  and  reluctantly: 

"Oh!    A  bally  row!" 

"Urn!" 

Inez  and  Marion,  after  marvelously  little 
delay,  came  with  the  apparatus  of  mustard  leaves 
and  hot-water  bags.  Marion,  in  deshabille,  was 
wearing  a  garment  which  I  recognized  as  a  cast-off 
dressing  gown  of  Inez's.  Her  hair  was  loose.  No 
cap,  no  apron,  no  tight  black  frock!  But  the 
spectacles ! 

"  That  will  do,  Marion,  for  the  present,"  said 
Inez. 

"  Yes'm." 

In  a  moment  I  was  enveloped  in  mustard  leaves, 
hot-water  bags,  and  rugs.  And  then  all  the  pain 
vanished,  and  it  was  as  though  the  whole  phenom- 
enon of  pain  had  been  removed  from  the  entire 
earth.  The  surcease,  I  thought,  was  not  due  to  the 

118 


THE   DOCTOR 


applications;  but  by  chance  it  coincided  with  them. 
I  leaned  voluptuously  back  in  the  easy-chair,  and 
smiled  at  the  doctor.  In  my  smile  was  something 
of  sheepishness,  for  I  was  ashamed  of  the  helpless, 
brutish  condition  to  which  acute  pain  had  abased  me. 
I  had  an  instinctive  idea  that  I  owed  an  apology 
for  it  to  fellow-creatures. 

"  By  God !  "  I  muttered.     "  By  God !  " 

The  noise  was  reverberating  in  my  head  as  loudly 
as  ever. 

"  Yes/'  said  the  doctor  in  response  to  my  curiosity 
— he  was  sitting  down  now — "  I  can  tell  you  pre- 
cisely. It's  all  due  to  that  severe  endocarditis  you 
had  when  you  had  your  rheumatic  fever.  Dilated 
heart  means  a  weak  heart.  If  you'd  stopped  in  bed 
longer  the  valves  might  have  recovered  themselves. 
But  you  wouldn't  stop  in  bed,  and  they  were  perma- 
nently affected." 

He  did  not  say  this  with  reproach  or  with  regret. 
He  merely  recorded  it  as  an  impartial  observer,  that 
quite  naturally,  quite  humanly,  I  had  disregarded  his 
urgent  advice  to  remain  in  bed  a  long  time  after  the 
rheumatic  fever. 

A  quarter  of  an  hour  later  he  left,  saying  that  I 
might  go  to  bed  as  soon  as  I  felt  equal  to  the  effort, 
and  that  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done.  He 
arranged  with  Inez  that  Marion  should  dress  and 

119 


THE   GLIMPSE 


follow  him  to  the  surgery  for  a  cardiac  tonic  which 
he  would  prepare. 

My  wife  and  I  then  sat  silent  together. 

In  another  half  hour  I  announced  that  I  could 
and  should  go  to  bed.  On  her  arm  I  walked  easily 
to  the  bedroom.  I  obstinately  and  even  angrily  in- 
sisted upon  undressing  myself.  I  would  only  allow 
her  to  take  from  me  the  various  articles  of  attire  as 
I  shed  them.  Yet  I  knew  that  I  was  wrong  in  thus 
unnecessarily  wasting  my  strength,  and  the  clumsi- 
ness of  my  movements  was  remarkable.  .  .  .  Then 
I  was  in  bed,  lying  on  my  back.  The  noise  in  my 
head  continued.  I  remained  sure  of  my  approaching 
death. 


CHAPTER    XIV 

THE   NIGHT 

ALL  had  happened  so  swiftly  that  the  mind 
was,  as  it  were,  left  breathless.  I  could  see 
this  mental  state  in  my  wife's  face. 

"  Better  go  to  bed  now,"  I  suggested  quietly ;  my 
voice  was  fatigued  and  feeble. 

She  pursed  out  her  lips,  and  raised  her  eyebrows, 
at  the  same  time  slightly  shaking  her  head,  in  the 
expression  of  a  negative.  I  comprehended  that  she 
had  endeavored  to  make  this  refusal  kindly  and  per- 
suasive, and  that  she  wished  to  prove  to  me  the 
devotion  which  my  condition  had  inspired  in  her. 
Naturally,  we  could  not  converse,  even  had  I  been 
sufficiently  strong  and  sufficiently  interested  in  life 
to  converse.  The  acute  self-consciousness  would  in 
any  case  have  prevented  us  from  an  exchange  of 
ideas.  Her  confession,  her  bitterness,  my  cruel 
irony,  lay  freshly  between  us.  Impossible  for  us  to 
have  been  natural !  What  could  we  have  said  ?  We 
were  none  the  less  bound  together  by  my  sudden 
physical  danger  and  need.  She  had  to  watch  over 

121 


THE   GLIMPSE 


me,  I  had  to  depend  upon  her — and  we  could  not 
even  look  each  other  in  the  face!  She  remained  at 
the  foot  of  my  bed,  not  pouring  hope  into  me  from 
brave,  affectionate  eyes,  but  with  glance  averted, 
troubled  and  guilty.  At  length  she  sat  down  on  a 
chair.  I  could  not  see  her  head,  but  parts  of  her 
ribboned  dress  were  visible  to  me.  I  seemed  to  doze. 
Then  I  heard  gentle  movements.  She  was  changing 
her  tea  gown  for  a  plain  dressing  gown.  Her  ges- 
tures had  recovered  all  their  grace. 

I  pitied  her.  My  rancor,  and  the  sense  of  my  deep 
injury,  had  expired.  As  I  lay  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  of 
exhaustion,  and  watched  her,  I  thought  that  she  and  I 
had  been  together  for  innumerable  years,  that  we  had 
been  intensely  intimate  in  very  varied  circumstances, 
that  each  had  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  other's 
character,  and  that  all  was  now  finished;  the  vivid, 
lovely,  and  mournful  chapter  closed!  ...  A  mel- 
ancholy sweet  and  languorous  as  the  summer 
night  impregnated  me.  I  found  a  faint  pleasure 
in  it. 

And  as  I  lazily  watched  her  I  thought :  "  I  am 
leaving  you,  and  I  am  leaving  you  to  unhappiness. 
You  will  have  money  in  plenty,  you  will  be  free,  but 
you  yourself  will  be  the  continual  source  of  your  own 
unhappiness."  I  pictured  a  future  for  her,  with  Cap- 
tain Hulse,  for  example.  That  idyl  could  never  en- 

122 


THE   NIGHT 


dure.  Use  would  inevitably  stale  it  till  it  withered. 
And  then  what?  Another  idyl?  And  then  what? 
Then  the  dreaded  approach  of  middle  age ;  the  de- 
cadence of  that  wondrous  body — supreme  disaster! 
What  tragic  mornings  were  in  store  for  her !  What 
tears,  what  humiliations!  At  forty,  without  the 
strong  moral  support  of  a  man  who  understands 
her  deeply,  and  cares  for  her,  such  a  woman  as  Inez 
is  worse  than  dead.  And  I  felt,  despite  her  fierce 
accusation  that  I  had  never  understood  her,  that  no 
one  would  ever  grasp  the  basis  of  her  character  as 
I  had  grasped  it,  and  that  no  one  would  be  capable 
of  being  so  tolerant  as  I  could  have  been — in  the 
future.  .  .  .  And  then  I  pictured  a  different  future 
for  her.  She  might,  in  a  paroxysm  of  contrition,  defi- 
nitely repulse  Johnnie.  She  might  argue  with  her- 
self, in  her  theatrical,  sentimental  way,  that  they  two 
could  not  link  their  hands  across  my  tomb.  She 
might  become  a  nurse,  or  even  a  nun.  Yes,  a  nun, 
fervent  in  protestations !  I  saw  her  amidst  conventual 
gardens,  endeavoring  to  convince  herself  that  she 
was  content,  and  all  the  while  the  desire  for  opera 
boxes  and  jewels  and  men  burning  her  soul  like 
quicklime!  I  saw  her  in  old  age,  fantastic  and 
ridiculous !  And  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  alone  could 
have  saved  her. 

These  thoughts  were  not  acute  enough  to  be  pain- 
9  123 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ful.  I  was  too  tired,  too  resigned,  to  feel  acutely. 
But  they  gently  emphasized  my  sadness. 

A  timid  knock  at  the  door.  The  spectacled  girl 
entered.  This  singular,  baffling  damsel  was  now 
again  fully  clothed  in  her  conventional  black  and 
starched  white,  even  to  the  cap  and  the  cuffs.  She 
had  brought  the  medicine,  with  glass  and  spoon,  on 
a  salver.  Inez  deciphered  the  label  on  the  bottle  and 
looked  at  the  spoon. 

"  Thank  you." 

"  I  shall  sit  up,  m'm,"  Marion  whispered. 

"  I  tell  you  what  you  might  do,"  Inez  whispered 
back.  "  You  might  rest  on  the  settee  in  the  drawing- 
room.  Tell  cook  she  can  go  to  bed." 

Marion  bowed  to  the  command  and  withdrew. 

I  objected  to  the  medicine,  but  I  knew  that  I 
should  be  compelled  to  take  it ;  and  I  did  so — a  com- 
plicated business.  When  it  was  over,  I  murmured 
to  Inez: 

"Mirror!" 

I  was  careful  to  say  "  mirror,"  instead  of  "  glass," 
lest  she  might  think  I  wanted  the  medicine  glass, 
and  fatiguing  explanations  might  ensue. 

"  Oh,  no!  "  she  said  mildly.  "  You  don't  really 
want  that  again." 

"Yes,  yes."    . 

She  had  to  bring  it,  and  hold  it  above  my  eyes, 
124 


THE   NIGHT 


as  I  lay  gazing  perpendicularly  upward.  I  saw  the 
terribly  drawn,  apprehensive  face,  with  its  waxen 
skin,  once  more.  I  thought :  "  They,  too,  since  they 
see  this  face,  must  know  that  I  am  dying."  The 
reverberations  in  my  head  had  ceased. 

She  removed  the  mirror. 

A  moment  afterwards  I  felt  her  startled  eye  upon 
me.  And  I  perceived  that  my  hands  were  picking 
aimlessly  at  the  edge  of  the  sheet.  "  That  is  just 
what  dying  people  do ! "  I  thought.  I  had  not 
noticed  what  I  was  doing !  How  curious !  I  ceased 
picking  at  the  sheet. 

Then  a  blank!  A  long  expanse  of  time!  And 
then  I  became  aware  gradually  that  I  was,  after  all, 
not  in  my  own  flat,  and  that,  ill  as  I  was,  I  must  go 
home  instantly.  And  I  tried  to  go  home.  I  insisted 
on  going  home.  But  inconceivably  foolish  persons 
were  preventing  me.  I  talked  very  rapidly,  now 
loud,  now  soft,  uttering  the  most  extraordinary  mat- 
ters, and  at  intervals  stopping  in  my  frenzied  dis- 
course to  clarify  obscure  but  important  points,  such 
as  my  view  of  Johnnie  Hulse's  painting.  Then  I 
fought  for  liberty  to  go  home.  I  fought  ferociously. 
But  I  was  gripped  by  two  of  these  inconceivably 
foolish  persons.  It  was  two  to  one.  Then  I  was 
shocked  to  discover  that  I  was  writhing  on  my  own 
bed,  and  that  Inez  and  Marion,  on  either  side  of  the 

125 


THE   GLIMPSE 


bed,  were  holding  me  by  force  of  arms !    And  how 
athletic  they  were !    But  they  breathed  heavily ! 

I  yielded,  sinking  back. 

Another  blank. 

And  I  heard  a  voice,  somehow  familiar,  saying: 

"  He  may  or  he  mayn't.  We  can  do  nothing 
else." 

And  then,  later,  the  same  voice : 

"  It's  because  the  eyes  themselves  are  turned  up- 
ward, like  into  the  forehead;  the  pupil  is  gone  up 
out  of  sight  and  so  you  can  only  see  the  white.  He 
may  be  like  that  for " 

The  voice  stopped.  It  was  the  doctor's  voice. 
Strange!  They  had  been  telephoning,  then,  and 
waiting,  and  the  doctor  had  arrived  again,  and  come 
into  the  room,  and  I  had  known  nothing!  Marion 
stood  at  attention  in  a  corner  of  the  room.  I  stirred. 
The  doctor  came  toward  me  with  a  faint  smile. 
Then  I  noticed  another  strange  phenomenon.  Some- 
thing hot,  damp,  and  stinging  was  pressing  against 
the  calves  of  my  legs.  They  had  uncovered  me,  and 
put  poultices  there,  and  covered  me;  and  I  had 
known  nothing! 

"  Here !  "  murmured  the  doctor  persuasively. 

He  put  a  small  glass  to  my  lips. 

I  smiled.  It  was  the  smile  of  one  sardonic  philos- 
opher to  another. 

126 


THE    NIGHT 


After  an  interval  the  doctor  departed,  and  Inez 
followed  him  out  of  the  room.  Marion  remained  to 
watch,  respectfully  glancing  at  me  from  moment  to 
moment.  I  was  fully  conscious  and  in  my  right 
mind,  but  ineffably  weak.  Then  Inez  silently  re- 
turned, and,  at  a  gesture  from  her,  Marion  with- 
drew silently,  leaving  the  door  ajar. 

Inez  approached  my  bed.  I  let  my  head  slide 
slowly  rightward,  so  that  my  right  cheek  was  on 
the  pillow  and  my  eye  met  hers.  My  right  hand, 
which  lay  on  the  sheet,  moved  scarce  perceptibly 
toward  her.  She  took  it,  and  dropped  to  her  knees, 
as  I  had  once  seen  her  drop  to  her  knees  before  an 
altar  at  the  Oratory  of  St.  Philip  Neri,  and  her  eye 
was  level  with  mine. 

"  Did  he  tell  you  it's  all  up  ?  "  I  questioned  her. 
My  voice  seemed  like  the  wraith  of  a  voice. 

She  shook  her  head,  as  it  were  by  force  of  will. 
And  I  saw  moisture  gathering  in  her  bright  feverish 
eyes.  It  rose  and  rose,  and  then  a  shower  of  glisten- 
ing drops  burst  and  ran  down  her  exquisite,  pouting 
cheeks.  This  was  one  of  the  most  beautiful  sights 
that  I  ever  witnessed. 


CHAPTER    XV 

TOWARD   OBLIVION 

BETWEEN  the  twin  beds  was  a  small,  square 
table,  and  on  the  table  stood  an  electric  lamp 
with  a  green-silk  shade.  The  circle  of  light  limited 
by  the  shade  included  the  edge  of  my  bed  and  Inez's 
face  as  she  knelt.  Beyond  the  confines  of  the  circle 
the  whole  chamber  was  in  gloom.  But  I  could 
vaguely  distinguish  the  contours  and  the  tints  of  all 
the  beautiful  furniture  in  the  room,  and  I  could  recall 
the  fineness  of  the  engravings  and  photogravures  on 
the  unpatterned  walls.  And  there  was  Inez's  long- 
plumed  hat  perched  on  the  silver  candlestick!  The 
color  of  the  eiderdown,  which  had  been  drawn  away 
somewhat  and  cast  over  the  foot  of  the  bed,  was  a 
reddish  purple,  braided  with  green  :  it  showed  richly, 
amidst  the  general  severity  of  tone,  like  a  piece  of 
rhetoric.  I  mention  these  matters  because  I  then 
savored  them  with  pleasure — a  feeling  faint  but 
agreeable.  I  thought  that,  in  dying,  it  was  an  ad- 
vantage to  be  surrounded  by  phenomena  that  could 
not  wound — could  only  soothe — the  glazing  eye. 

128 


TOWARD    OBLIVION 


Inez  rose,  looked  at  me  for  an  instant,  and  moved 
away  into  the  gloom.  She  appeared  to  me  extra- 
ordinary healthy,  in  a  state  of  high  physical  ef- 
ficiency. She  was  like  an  incarnation  of  perfectly 
coordinated  energy.  And  I  thought  what  a  won- 
derful and  lovely  thing  was  a  sound  body  in  good 
health !  Although  this  phenomenon,  too,  pleased  me, 
it  also  inspired  in  me  a  certain  feeble  resentment.  I, 
ruined,  did  in  fact  resent  the  active  competence  of 
that  organized  frame.  It  struck  me  as  insolent. 
And  yet  a  few  hours  previously  my  own  body  had 
displayed  the  same  insolence  of  power.  And  my  un- 
doing was  due  to  an  irrational  and  disobedient  im- 
patience after  rheumatic  fever  a  year  ago !  I  would, 
then,  in  my  growing  strength,  quit  my  bed.  And 
now,  as  a  consequence,  I  could  not  quit  it,  should 
never  quit  it.  Curiously  strange,  the  inexorability  of 
nature ! 

Exactly  opposite  the  foot  of  my  bed  was  the  door 
leading  to  the  study.  This  door  was  wide  open,  and 
the  vista  of  the  study,  ending  in  a  French  window, 
met  my  eyes  when  they  came  to  rest  in  the  natural 
position  of  repose.  No  lamp  burned  in  the  study. 
There  were  dim  hints  of  glossy  reflections,  and  the 
window  made  an  oblong  of  bluish  twilight.  The 
window  was  ajar ;  its  two  wings  stirred  slightly  from 
time  to  time,  and  the  white  lace  curtains  stirred, 

129 


THE   GLIMPSE 


bellying  capriciously  and  then  flattening  out,  ac- 
cording to  the  mild,  warm  gusts  of  the  July  night. 
Through  the  upper  part  of  the  window  I  could 
discern  a  patch  of  silver  in  the  sky,  of  an  exqui- 
site quality  of  color.  I  had  previously  observed 
this  patch  from  the  balcony  of  the  drawing-room, 
when  I  had  looked  down  at  the  departure  of  John 
and  Mary.  It  was  the  pale  gleaming  vestige  of  a 
magnificent  sunset,  reluctant  to  expire,  islanded 
amidst  dark  clouds  in  the  highest  heavens.  I 
thought:  "That  silver  cannot  burn  there  through 
the  night.  It  must  fade."  And  I  waited  for  it  to 
fade.  And  it  would  not  fade.  I  closed  my  eyes 
for  immense  periods,  and  looked  again,  expecting 
the  radiance  to  be  gone.  But  it  was  always  there, 
making  the  window  wonderful. 

Everything  was  still,  silent,  enchanted.  And  out 
of  the  silence,  like  bubbles  floating  upward  to  the 
surface  of  a  pool  and  breaking  there,  came  the 
solemn  tick-tick  of  the  antique  clock  in  the  vestibule, 
dominating  the  subdued  life  of  the  flat,  and  count- 
ing eternity.  I  thought  of  the  cook,  sleeping  I  knew 
not  where,  and  the  enigmatic  Marion  stretched  on  a 
settee  in  the  dark  drawing-room  (a  woman,  be- 
neath that  tight  black  frock),  and  Inez,  strong  and 
beautiful,  indistinctly  near  me  somewhere  in  the 
green-shadowed  chamber. 

130 


TOWARD   OBLIVION 


I  saw  my  hand  twitching  and  toying  with  the  edge 
of  the  sheet  again,  and  I  stopped  it. 

It  was  a  pity  that  the  spell  that  brooded  over  the 
flat  would  be  broken  by  my  death !  A  pity  that  the 
subdued  and  apprehensive  life  of  the  flat  could  not 
remain  thus  forever  in  its  beautiful  immobility.  The 
thought  of  the  harsh  and  ugly  disturbances  insepa- 
rable from  a  funeral,  and  of  the  probable  evacuation 
of  the  flat,  and  of  the  invasion  of  its  chill  emptiness 
by  loud-voiced,  insincerely  disparaging  flat  hunters 
— this  wounded  and  worried  me.  However,  there 
would  be  plenty  of  money  for  Inez.  She  would  be 
put  to  no  shifts.  .  .  .  Strange  that  none  of  these 
people  believed  that  my  immediate  death  was  sure ! 
They  all  hoped,  with  a  genuine  hope  that  was  nigh 
faith,  for  my  recovery.  Even  the  doctor  had  faith. 
Otherwise  my  sister  would  have  been  summoned. 
But  they  feared.  I  alone  saw  with  certainty  the  fu- 
ture. And  I  alone  was  calm  and  untroubled. 

Another  long  period  seemed  to  elapse.  But  prob- 
ably my  conceptions  of  time  were  seriously  falsified. 
I  heard  the  clock  ticking;  yet,  though  its  habit  was 
to  chime  the  quarters,  I  never  heard  it  strike.  Prob- 
ably also  I  had  a  very  inadequate  notion  of  the  com- 
plexity of  the  treatment  to  which  I  was  being  sub- 
jected. I  seemed  to  have  disconnected  glimpses  of 
intricate  operations  which  kept  Inez  busy  about  my 


THE   GLIMPSE 


bed.  Once,  after  having  adjusted  the  coverings,  she 
murmured  to  me: 

"  Are  you  comfortable  ?  " 

And  I  endeavored  to  nod.  I  must  have  succeeded 
in  nodding.  Then  my  head  slipped  to  one  side. 

All  I  wished  was  to  be  left  quiescent  in  the  peace 
which  was  enwrapping  me  in  heavier  and  heavier 
folds.  I  had  no  regrets  for  the  past,  and  no  qualms 
about  the  future.  My  life  did  not  pass  before  me 
in  a  phantasmagoria  of  self-judging.  I  had  no  satis- 
faction concerning  things  done,  nor  did  I  grieve  for 
things  undone;  nor  did  my  soul  weep  over  lost  op- 
portunities. I  did  not  wander  in  the  remote  caverns 
of  infancy,  unvisited  for  decades.  I  saw  my  career 
in  no  new  light.  I  was  unaware  of  any  remorse. 
The  solemnity  of  the  crisis  in  my  immortality  scarce- 
ly oppressed  me  at  all.  I  thought :  "  I  am  going !  I 
am  going !  It  is  just  as  well !  What  a  cutting  of  the 
knot !  Let  me  depart !  "  Did  I  say  I  had  no  qualms 
for  the  future?  Scarcely  true!  The  great  void  of 
my  indifference  was  shot  through  at  intervals  by  thin, 
lancinating  flashes  of  fear,  of  an  unknown  terror. 
.  .  .  After  all,  if  the  passage  into  the  new  conscious- 
ness on  the  other  side  of  death  should  somehow 
correspond  in  dread  with  the  legendary  superstitions 
of  mankind !  If  the  mighty  power  waiting  beyond 
the  horizon  should,  after  all,  be  vindictive,  should 

132 


TOWARD   OBLIVION 


even  be  but  scientifically  just!  .  .  .  Then  the  flash 
was  gone.  I  thought :  "  I  shall  soon  know."  And 
there  was  a  certain  feeble  adventurous  nonchalance 
in  my  mood — the  insolence,  at  once  titanic  and  pert, 
of  the  human  soul  before  an  unimaginable  danger! 
These  sensations  that  I  describe  were  unimportant 
in  the  sum  of  my  consciousness,  which  mainly  con- 
sisted in  a  fierce  physical  egotism  caused  by  exhaus- 
tion of  the  body.  My  body  had  my  brain  in  subjec- 
tion. I  knew  that  my  face  was  not  drawn  and 
anxious  now.  I  knew  that  it  could  express  nothing 
but  the  intense  need  of  repose.  All  other  considera- 
tions receded.  I  must  rest.  Sleep,  and  a  state  pro- 
founder  than  sleep !  Leave  me,  intruders,  torturers ! 
And  if  you  will  not,  I  defy  you  to  disturb  me.  I 
sink,  as  it  were,  downward  on  a  canine  sigh.  By  my 
side  the  lamp  throws  its  bright  ring  on  the  carpet. 
Far  in  front  the  mysterious  window  shimmers  in 
vague,  translucent  silver.  .  .  .  All!  .  .  .  The  man 
lost  in  the  snow-veiled  Alpine  pass,  seized  by  slumber 
as  by  an  opiate,  insensately  fighting  his  rescuers  for 
the  incomparable  bliss  of  oblivion — behold  there  my 
image ! 


BOOK   II 


CHAPTER    XVI 

AWAKING 

THIS  is  what  I  awoke  to : 
I  was  looking  at  my  bed.  My  brain  at  first 
worked  with  much  difficulty.  It  reasoned  very 
slowly.  Nevertheless,  the  argument  was  convinc- 
ing :  "  I  am  looking  at  the  bed.  Therefore  I  am  not 
in  the  bed."  I  saw  the  bed  framed  in  a  small  oblong, 
of  which  the  greater  length  was  vertical.  This  ob- 
long was  the  doorway  between  the  bedroom  and  my 
study.  Hence  I  had  arrived,  by  some  means,  in  the 
study.  I  was,  in  fact,  near  the  open  window.  I 
had  a  slight  sensation  of  chilliness,  though  I  knew 
that  the  night  was  warm. 

A  man.  lay  on  the  bed.  He  was  a  big  man,  as  I 
could  judge  from  the  outlines  of  his  shoulders  under 
the  sheet.  And  his  head  was  large.  His  face  showed 
white;  the  eyes  were  wide  open  and  staring  fixedly 
at  the  ceiling;  the  lower  jaw  had  fallen,  limp,  so 
that  the  mouth  was  open  in  a  senile,  rather  idiotic 

134 


AWAKING 


way.  A  man  of  forty  or  so.  I  was  prevented  by 
the  intervening  foot  of  the  bed  from  seeing  more 
than  the  upper  half  of  what  lay  on  it,  and  by  the 
dimensions  of  the  doorway  from  seeing  anything  in 
the  bedroom  except  the  bed.  I  heard  a  rush  of  foot- 
steps, and  then  the  electric  light  over  the  bed  was 
turned  on,  illuminating  crudely  the  face  of  the  man, 
whose  eyelids,  however,  did  not  blink.  Then  my 
wife  appeared  within  the  field  of  my  vision,  with  the 
hand  mirror,  which  she  polished  carefully  on  a 
corner  of  the  eiderdown.  Thereupon  she  held  it 
downward  over  the  mouth  and  nostrils  of  the  man 
for  a  long  time,  and  then  examined  it,  first  under  the 
ceiling  light  and  afterwards  under  the  lamp  on  the 
little  table.  Parts  of  her — her  head,  an  arm,  a  por- 
tion of  skirt — were  continually  passing  in  and  out 
of  the  oblong.  She  was  extremely  agitated.  I 
scarcely  recognized  her  by  her  features. 

Nor,  though  it  may  astound,  did  I  recognize  the 
man  on  the  bed.  An  appreciable  period  elapsed  be- 
fore I  even  began  vaguely  to  realize  that  the  body 
on  the  bed  was  mine.  I  had  never  seen  myself  save 
in  a  glass,  which  puts  the  left  to  the  right  and  the 
right  to  the  left,  thus  changing  all  the  relations  of 
the  features.  I  had  to  reason  out  the  identity  of  the 
body.  It  could  be  no  other ;  therefore,  it  was  mine. 

And  then  the  idea  shot  through  me — not  as  a 
135 


THE    GLIMPSE 


result  of  ratiocination,  but  as  a  swift  fundamental 
perception  of  the  instinct: 

"  I'm  dead !    This  is  being  dead !    I've  died !  " 

Terror  clutched  and  loosed  me;  retired  and  then 
approached  slowly  from  all  sides  to  possess  me.  I 
felt  the  start,  the  shiver,  the  momentary  cold  creep- 
ing of  the  skin  on  the  spine — an  instant  of  ineffable 
anguish ;  then  numbness ;  then  the  gradual  return  of 
anguish.  A  sailor  marooned  on  a  desert  islet,  and 
newly  aware  of  what  had  happened  to  him,  might 
feebly  conceive  my  state.  Indescribable !  Sickening ! 

I  still  had  some  sort  of  a  physical  organism,  pat- 
terned apparently  on  the  old,  but  differing  in  deep 
ways  which,  however,  I  was  not  curious  enough  to 
consider.  I  was  still  I.  It  was  the  relic  on  the  bed 
that  was  not  I. 

My  wife,  after  disappearing,  came  back  into  the 
oblong  with  a  pair  of  scissors.  She  cut  a  hole  in  the 
pillow  and  drew  from  it  a  feather  of  down,  which 
she  cautiously  poised  on  the  lips  of  that  body.  The 
down  did  not  tremble.  Then  she  bared  the  breast 
of  the  body  on  the  bed,  and,  bending,  laid  her  ear 
upon  the  region  of  the  heart.  I  could  see  her  eyes 
blinking  as  she  intensely  listened.  She  was  looking 
directly  at  me.  The  bedroom  was  brilliantly  lit,  and 
the  study  derived  considerable  light  from  it.  I  ought 
to  have  been  quite  plain,  as  an  object.  Even  had  the 

136 


AWAKING 


study  been  dark,  I  ought  to  have  been  notable  as  a 
silhouette  against  the  silvery  luminance  of  the  win- 
dow. Yet  Inez  did  not  see  me. 

I  wanted  to  cry  out :  "  Inez !  "  But  I  could  make 
no  sound.  Nor  could  I  move.  That  is  to  say,  I 
could  move  a  few  inches  in  any  direction,  up  or 
down,  forward,  backward,  sideways,  as  easily  as  one 
moves  in  water,  but  I  could  not  quit  the  spot  where  I 
was. 

Inez  straightened  herself,  gave  a  brief  sob,  and 
stood  undecided  by  the  bed.  I  endeavored  to  attract 
her  attention  by  signs — by  I  knew  not  what,  by  the 
violence  of  my  desire  to  communicate  with  her.  But 
I  could  do  nothing.  Once  she  turned  sharply,  as  if 
startled,  and  looked  straight  at  me  through  the  door- 
way. I  strove  now  more  frantically  than  ever  to  in- 
tercept that  glance.  Useless!  She  did  not  see  me. 
She  would  not  see  me. 

She  passed  out  of  the  oblong.  I  then  noticed  a 
form  floating  over  the  bed.  It  resembled  me — it 
resembled  my  body — in  shape,  but  it  was  of  a  pale, 
grayish,  heliotrope  color.  It  appeared  to  float  as  if 
in  water.  "  My  God !  "  I  thought.  "  How  often 
am  I  to  be  multiplied  ?  "  I  was  aghast  with  horror, 
consternation,  panic,  and  an  awful  bewilderment. 
I  could  explain  nothing  to  myself.  I  was  terrorized 
and  lost.  And,  moreover,  the  floating  imitation  of 

137 


THE   GLIMPSE 


me  was  obscene;  the  body  below  it  was  obscene. 
Understand  me :  when  I  say  "  obscene,"  I  mean  com- 
pletely offensive  and  disastrous  to  the  sight:  I  use 
the  word  in  no  limited  sense.  It  was  fatally  shocking 
that  that  disgusting  relic  and  that  uncanny  fluid 
shape  should  be  there  between  the  homely,  earthly, 
comprehensible,  decent  electric  light  and  the  Hepple- 
white  bedstead. 

I  thought : 

"  Dead  ?     Yes.     What  '  they '  call  dead !  " 

But  I  knew  then  that  there  was  no  such  catas- 
trophe as  corresponded  with  your  notion  of  death. 
There  was,  however,  something  more  formidable, 
which  we  had  not  suspected :  the  forced  simultaneous 
perception  of  disparate  phenomena.  This  is  the 
most  shattering,  if  not  the  most  desolating  experi- 
ence that  the  universe  holds.  Believe  me ! 

I  heard  the  voice  of  Inez : 

"Marion!" 

It  was  a  voice  charged  with  significance,  and  it 
told  Marion  the  great  fact.  I  heard  a  sleepy  groan 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  dull  heavy  movements, 
becoming  hastier.  And  then  both  women  appeared 
within  the  oblong.  Marion  still  wore  her  black  frock 
and  she  was  mechanically  tying  her  apron  behind. 
They  gazed  at  that  body  on  the  bed,  and  at  each 
other,  and  at  the  body  again.  They  gazed  at  that 

138 


AWAKING 


body,  commiserating  and  awestruck,  as  if  it  was  my- 
self that  they  were  gazing  at.  Neither  spoke.  I 
wanted  to  rouse  them  to  their  error,  so  stupid,  gro- 
tesque, and  tragic.  But  I  was  helpless.  I  was  in  the 
most  desperate  need  of  sympathy,  of  moral  succor; 
and  they  ignored  me,  spilling  their  facile  tears  on  a 
mass  of  obscene  and  senseless  matter.  They  were 
blind  to  such  a  point  that  they  could  not  even  discern 
the  third  "  me  "  floating  idly  above  their  heads  on  a 
level  with  Brangwyn's  large  etching  of  London 
Bridge. 

Inez  told  what  she  had  done.  Marion  ventured 
to  bend  a  little  closer  to  the  body. 

"  I  have  heard,"  she  said  deferentially,  "  that  if 
you  put  a  full  glass  of  water  on  the  chest  you  can 
tell  for  sure.  But  perhaps  you  wouldn't  care  to, 


m'm." 


By  this  time  her  apron  was  duly  fastened. 

First  Inez  and  then  the  servant  passed  out  of  the 
oblong,  and  I  caught  the  sound  of  water  being 
poured  from  one  vessel  into  another.  And  Inez  re- 
appeared holding  at  arm's  length,  and  balancing 
with  precautions,  a  tumbler  of  water. 

"  Turn  down  the  sheet,"  she  commanded. 

"  Oh,  ma'am !  I  never  dare !  "  exclaimed  Marion, 
and  burst  fairly  into  hysteric  sobs. 

With  a  slight  gesture  of  scornful  superiority,  Inez 
10  139 


THE   GLIMPSE 


deposited  the  glass  on  the  corner  of  the  table,  turned 
down  the  sheet,  took  the  glass  again,  and  gingerly 
lowered  it  on  to  the  chest  of  that  body.  I  could 
see  from  their  faces  that  both  women  imagined 
themselves  to  be  engaged  in  an  operation  dreadful 
and  momentous.  To  me  it  was  merely  absurd  in  an 
exasperating  degree.  The  ridiculousness  of  their 
maneuver  affronted  my  sense  of  propriety.  From 
either  side  of  the  bed  they  stared  as  if  spellbound 
at  the  preposterous  tumbler  lodged  on  that  fleshly 
residue.  I  had  never  since  my  youth  been  able  to 
envisage  any  act  whatsoever  as  blasphemous.  When 
people  talked  of  blasphemy,  I  could  never  even  fan- 
cifully reproduce  their  feelings  in  myself.  Yet,  then, 
the  figures  of  Inez  and  the  maid,  and  the  decaying 
mass  between  them,  and  the  meaningless  tumbler, 
constituted  for  me,  in  some  way,  a  blasphemous  tab- 
leau vivant:  the  most  monstrous  spectacle  that  I 
had  ever  seen. 

"  No !    Nothing !  "  Inez  breathed. 

There  was  not  the  slightest  vibration  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  tumbler,  which  she  at  length  removed. 

They  were  obsessed,  both  of  them,  by  the  majesty 
and  solemnity  of  death.  So  much  was  to  be  seen  in 
their  impressionable  faces,  and  audible  in  their 
voices,  and  visible  again  in  their  movements.  They 
felt  themselves  to  be  alone  in  the  flat  with  the  dead, 

140 


AWAKING 


and  they  looked  timidly  askance  at  shadows,  and 
started  at  faint  unanticipated  noises.  Obviously  the 
whole  flat  was  alive  for  them  with  the  little  creeping 
presences  that  are  supposed  to  circle  round  a  corpse. 
And  yet  I  could  not  force  into  their  consciousness 
the  fact  that  I  was  behind  them,  helpless  and  deso- 
late. And  they  remained  extraordinarily  unaware 
of  the  weird  counterfeit  floating  above  them.  I  was 
in  despair  of  my  impotence,  and  outraged  by  the 
obstinacy  of  their  error.  They  deemed  themselves 
alone  in  the  flat  with  the  corpse ;  but  they  were  alone 
in  the  flat  with  me ;  the  corpse  was  utterly  negligible ; 
the  corpse  did  not  exist.  And  they  were  wasting 
upon  it  their  sympathy,  their  respect,  their  awe. 
This  was  what  most  deeply  perturbed  me. 

"  I'd  better  telephone  for  the  doctor,  m'm,  hadn't 
I  ?  "  whispered  Marion.  Terror  was  gripping  them 
tighter. 

"  What's  the  use  ?  "  murmured  Inez.  "  It  would 
only  spoil  the  poor  man's  night  for  nothing.  He 
warned  me — to  be  prepared !  " 

"  Yes'm,"  said  Marion  meekly.  "  But  that's  what 
doctors  are  for.  By  rights  he  ought  to  be  fetched." 

She  had  her  way. 

I  heard  her  presently  enunciating  with  trembling 
distinctness  the  figures  of  a  telephone  number.  After 
a  time  she  came  back  to  the  bedroom  and  I  heard 

141 


THE   GLIMPSE 


her  say  that  the  exchange  said  that  they  could  get  no 
reply  from  the  doctor.  Silence.  Neither  Inez  nor 
Marion  was  now  within  the  oblong.  I  noticed  that 
the  grayish  heliotrope  apparition  had  risen  higher 
from  the  bed,  so  that  part  of  it  was  already  hidden 
from  me  by  the  top  of  the  doorway.  Soon  it  van- 
ished altogether,  upward  out  of  my  field  of  vision. 

Then  I  heard  the  chink  of  coins. 

"  Have  you  got  a  penny,  Marion?  " 

"  A  penny,  ma'am  ?  " 

"  I've  only  got  one.     His  eyes  must  be  closed." 

No!  The  spectacled  girl  had  not  got  a  penny. 
My  mood  became  bitterly  ironic.  There  was  a  con- 
siderable to-do  about  the  second  penny.  And  I  ached 
for  them  to  finish  the  episode.  I  knew  that  in  a 
drawer  of  my  desk  lay  over  two  shillings'  worth 
of  coppers ;  for  I  had  made  a  point  of  storing  cop- 
pers ;  it  was  one  of  my  little  tricks  of  habit  always 
to  have  change  adequate  for  every  emergency.  Inez 
also  knew  of  this  store  of  copper.  But  in  her  agita- 
tion she  forgot  it.  So  the  difficulty  of  the  other 
penny  persisted.  I  wanted  to  recall  to  her  that  which 
she  had  forgotten.  I  longed  with  an  intense  longing 
to  direct  her  attention  to  the  drawer.  But  I  could 
not.  My  impotence  was  appalling. 

"  I  suppose  I  can  use  half  a  crown?  "  I  heard  Inez 
mutter  doubtfully. 

142 


AWAKING 


The  girl  ventured  no  reply  to  this  suggestion. 

Inez  appeared  within  the  oblong  once  more.  She 
had  in  one  hand  a  handkerchief  folded  crosswise  like 
a  muffler,  and  in  the  other  two  coins.  She  ap- 
proached that  body,  and  again  put  her  ear  to  its 
breast  and  listened  intently,  and  again  stared  straight 
at  me  with  blinking,  unseeing  eyes. 

Then  she  passed  the  handkerchief  under  that 
fallen  jaw  and  so  lifted  the  jaw  and  tied  the  hand- 
kerchief in  a  knot  at  the  top  of  the  head  of  that  body. 
There  was  a  sob  from  the  invisible  maid.  And  with 
her  delicate  fingers  Inez  drew  down  the  eyelids  of 
that  body,  and  put  a  penny  on  one  and  half  a  crown 
on  the  other.  And  she  straightened  the  arms  of  that 
body.  She  seemed  to  be  acquainted  with  these  singu- 
lar rites  much  better  than  I  was. 

"  I  shall  go  and  tell  cook,  m'm,"  said  the  de- 
termined voice  of  the  maid. 

I  heard  footsteps,  and  the  opening  of  a  door  far 
off. 

Suddenly  Inez  threw  herself  down  by  the  bed,  be- 
fore that  body,  as  before  an  altar,  and  hid  her  face 
in  the  eiderdown,  and  wept. 

"  I  did  love  you !  I  did  love  you !  "  she  cried  in 
stifled  and  broken  tones.  She  was  pouring  out  her 
soul  in  a  passionate  ecstasy  of  repentant  grief.  But 
she  was  pouring  it  out  to  that  futile,  obscene,  and 


THE    GLIMPSE 


negligible  mass  on  the  bed,  that  refuse  no  more 
capable  of  response  than  a  barrow  load  of  earth.  It 
was  it  that  she  loved.  And  I,  alive,  tingling,  isolate, 
and  agonized  for  lack  of  human  sympathy,  stood 
helpless  and  disregarded  within  a  few  feet  of  her,  in 
the  twilight  of  the  study. 


CHAPTER    XVII 

SOUNDS   OF   NIGHT 

NOW,  as,  slightly  waving  like  a  stalk,  I  stood 
by  the  window,  a  feeling  of  acute  and  fright- 
ful loneliness  enveloped  me  as  it  were  in  an  icy  sheet. 
I  was  solitary  in  the  universe.  I  was  invisible  and 
I  was  forgotten.  I  had  no  place  in  the  world,  no 
share  in  life,  nothing  that  was  mine.  The  purposes 
of  nature  had  ejected  me  from  humanity.  It  was 
as  though  humanity  were  a  fortified  city,  and  the 
gates  had  been  shut  on  me,  and  I  was  baffled  by 
unscalable  smooth  walls,  beating  against  their 
stone  with  my  hands.  Any  physical  torture  would 
have  been  preferable  to  the  horror  caused  by  this 
feeling  of  ostracized  solitude.  It  devastated  my 
soul,  laying  waste  the  whole  of  it. 

Marion  came  within  the  oblong  of  my  vision, 
and,  without  a  word,  put  her  hands  on  Inez,  and 
gently  raised  her  up  from  the  bedside  and  led  her 
away  beyond  my  view.  And  Inez  yielded,  unre- 
sisting. Here  were  two  human  beings,  sympa- 
thetic, mutually  comprehending,  relying  on  each 

145 


THE   GLIMPSE 


other,  sure  of  each  other.  And  the  tie  of  living 
humanity  which  joined  them  seemed  to  me  to  be 
the  most  beautiful  and  the  profoundest  that  could 
be  conceived.  The  simple  fact  that  they  were  alive 
together  surpassed  in  importance  every  other  fact 
in  their  relationship. 

The  next  moment  the  electric  light  was  extin- 
guished in  the  bedroom.  But  in  the  diffused  clar- 
ity of  the  summer  night  I  could  still  discern  the 
monstrous  shape  of  that  body  on  the  bed.  I  ob- 
served the  birth  of  a  light  in  the  drawing-room,  and 
heard  voices.  Then  I  heard  the  clock  chime  and 
strike  two.  It  was  at  this  point  that  I  first  per- 
ceived, in  the  midst  of  my  spiritual  pangs,  how  the 
sensitiveness  of  my  auditory  nerves  was  increas- 
ing. I  could  hear  all  the  clocks  of  London  strik- 
ing, separately  and  distinctly — so  it  appeared  to 
me.  Certainly  hundreds  of  thousands  of  clocks. 
Not  merely  the  deep-sounding  boom  of  cathe- 
drals, abbeys,  parliaments,  and  palaces,  but  the  lit- 
tle hasty  clocks  of  small  interiors.  I  could,  for 
instance,  distinguish  every  clock  on  every  floor  of 
Palace  Court  Mansions.  I  could  even  hear  the 
ticking  of  alarm  clocks  in  the  bedrooms  of  serv- 
ants, which  was  indeed  louder  than  the  soft  dis- 
cretion of  the  gongs  of  many  clocks  in  larger 
chambers.  This  innumerable  chorus  of  clocks 

146 


SOUNDS   OF   NIGHT 


continued  for  a  long  time,  gradually  decreasing  in 
volume  but  never  quite  dying  away.  Its  impres- 
siveness  was  uncanny.  The  living  speak  of  the  un- 
canniness  of  the  dead.  It  does  not  occur  to  them 
that  manifestations  of  human  existence  may  be 
uncanny  to  the  dead. 

That  sensation  of  the  uncanny  ceased.  I  could 
hear,  now,  in  the  silence  of  the  clocks,  all  the  noc- 
turnal stir  of  London.  I  could  hear  the  sound  of 
sleepers  and  of  those  who  did  not  sleep:  breathings, 
restless  motions,  murmurings,  moans,  groans, 
sharp  cries,  kisses,  pattering  of  bare  feet,  striking 
of  matches.  I  could  hear  the  regular  dropping  of 
some  dangerous  medicine  into  a  glass,  and  a  quiet 
voice  counting  the  drops,  and  the  gurgle  of  swal- 
lowing, and  the  sigh.  And  I  could  hear  laughter, 
and  the  creeping  of  pens  over  paper,  and  the  vi- 
brating roar  of  immense  machinery,  and  the  abrupt 
clanging  of  oven  doors,  and  the  march  of  sentinels, 
and  the  slither  of  dancing;  and  prayers.  .  .  .  The 
catalogue  would  be  interminable.  There  was  no 
confusion  in  my  mind.  I  had  a  million  ears,  inde- 
pendently functioning. 

And  out  of  the  vast  material  of  sound  I  seemed 
to  be  able  to  reproduce  for  myself  all  the  interiors 
of  London.  I  saw  attics,  and  rows  of  attics,  where 
girls  were  sleeping  uneasily,  huddled  together  in 

147 


THE   GLIMPSE 


the  attitudes  of  exhaustion;  and  their  black  frocks 
and  black  aprons  and  elastic-tethered  scissors  were 
hung  upon  nails  or  cast  carelessly  on  chairs;  and 
by  their  sides  the  little  round  fussy  alarm  clocks 
with  indicators  pointing  to  half  past  five,  six,  half 
past  six,  seven;  and  on  their  tiny  dressing  tables 
photographs  of  men  or  of  other  girls.  And  I  could 
see  rooms  which  resembled  kitchens  as  much  as  bed- 
rooms, with  men  and  women  and  children  crowded 
on  the  bed,  and  under  the  bed,  and  in  every  corner, 
and  a  baby  in  a  box,  and  all  stertorously  breathing, 
save  perhaps  one  who  lay  awake.  And  I  could 
see  immense  chambers,  with  one  bed,  or  two,  like 
islands  rising  out  of  smooth  seas  of  carpet,  and 
on  the  beds  something  just  human  that  moved  or 
did  not  move.  And  miles  upon  miles  of  plain  aver- 
age rooms,  astoundingly  alike  in  their  appliances 
of  comfort,  their  ornaments,  and  the  visages  and 
postures  of  their  occupants;  all  suspended  on  a 
groundwork  of  empty  rooms  about  a  dozen  feet 
above  the  level  of  the  roadways.  Nearly  all  dark, 
yet  not  quite  dark!  Here  and  there  a  bright  light: 
a  man  writing,  or  reading;  several  men  talking;  a 
solitary  bended  pale  woman  sewing — stitch,  stitch, 
monotonously  under  a  lamp;  yes,  and  even  white 
young  girls  sewing  doggedly  and  yawning!  Then 
the  prisons,  black,  and  patterned  into  cells  like  a 

148 


SOUNDS   OF   NIGHT 


chessboard.  And  the  other  prisons — barracks,  ris- 
ing floor  above  black  floor,  similarly  patterned. 
And  the  other  prisons — hospitals,  hotels,  rising 
floor  above  floor,  similarly  patterned,  but  illumi- 
nated faintly,  and  alive  with  special  activities.  And 
then  enormous  cellars,  bathed  in  bluish  radiance, 
and  filled  with  huge,  shaking,  whirring  machines 
about  which  men  scurried  to  and  fro  like  ants. 

Behind  walls,  all  that !  Secure  within  walls !  But 
the  roadways  themselves — leagues  of  lighted  ave- 
nues, intersecting,  curving,  slanting,  climbing — 
these,  too,  seemed  to  be  homely  and  secure  under 
the  guardianship  of  their  quiet  lamps.  They  all 
led  to  the  inner  and  double  safety  and  companion- 
ship of  interiors.  And  the  rare  people  that  paced 
them  on  calm,  regular  feet  or  swam  swiftlier  over 
them  on  wheels,  had  the  consciousness  of  this  sol- 
ace on  their  faces.  And  even  those  who  wandered 
aimlessly,  who  crouched  on  doorsteps,  or  lolled 
on  the  iron  benches  of  squares  and  embankments, 
even  these  were — how  shall  I  put  it? — at  home  in 
their  homelessness.  The  walls  of  which  the  in- 
terior sides  protected  the  sleepers,  protected  the 
outcasts  also  by  their  human  familiarity. 

I  alone  was  solitary.  I  alone  was  cut  off — by 
an  impassable  and  uncomprehensible  barrier.  .  .  . 
I  was  within  walls.  I  was  in  my  house.  I  was 

149 


THE   GLIMPSE 


near  my  wife  and  my  servants;  surrounded  by  the 
agreeable  toys  of  my  daily  existence.  Yes!  But 
that  was  naught.  And,  moreover,  I  was  not  after 
all  within  walls,  not  near  my  wife  and  my  posses- 
sions. I  was  nowhere.  I  had  no  relation  to  the 
human  world.  Sponged  off  it!  And  a  place  in  the 
human  world  seemed  to  me  to  be  the  one  object 
worthy  of  desire.  In  my  tragic,  unsuccored,  hope- 
less loneliness  there  was  not  one  of  these  millions 
of  human  creatures  whose  burden  I  would  not  have 
seized  had  I  had  the  power.  Not  a  starving 
wretch,  not  a  beaten  child,  not  a  pregnant  spinster, 
not  a  drunken  beast,  not  a  murderer,  a  thief,  a 
shamed  deceiver,  not  a  bereaved  lover,  not  a  con- 
demned invalid,  no,  not  even  a  gloved  lackey,  with 
whom  I  would  not  have  exchanged  lots.  I  would 
have  jumped  to  become  a  dog  or  a  cab  horse.  The 
freezing  blast  that  moans  in  the  hollow  between 
two  worlds  nipped  me,  and  I  was  naked  to  it. 


CHAPTER    XVIII 
MARION'S  THOUGHTS 

THE  telephone  bell  sharply  awoke  the  flat 
with  a  prolonged  silvery  ring,  rising  and 
falling  several  times.  There  was  a  stir  of  move- 
ment in  the  drawing-room,  and  a  door  opened. 
Then  I  heard  the  conversation  on  the  telephone.  I 
could  hear  it  all,  both  my  wife's  voice  and  the  voice 
that  whispered  answers  in  her  ear.  A  few  minutes 
previously  I  might  have  been  able  to  hear  that 
answering  voice  in  the  very  place  where  it  spoke 
— away  at  Netting  Hill.  But  already  my  hearing 
was  less  sensitive  and  sure  than  it  had  been.  The 
special  faculty  was  passing  from  me,  as  myste- 
riously as  it  had  come. 

"  How  is  the  patient?  "  asked  the  whispering 
voice,  with  an  accent  of  pleasant  optimism. 

"  Is  that  you,  doctor? "  The  voice  of  Inez 
shook. 

"  Yes.  I  am  called  out.  Just  going.  I  thought 
I'd  inquire  before  I  left." 

"  He  is  gone." 

"What  do  you  say?" 


THE  GLIMPSE 


"Gone!" 

"Ah!"  The  tone  of  the  faint  whisper  in  her 
ear  was  suddenly  changed. 

"  I  should  like  you  to  come,  doctor,  if  you  don't 
mind." 

"Was  it  sudden?" 

'  Yes.  Quite  sudden.  .  .  .  About  an  hour  ago. 
I  should  like  you  to  come  round,  if*  you  could,  just 
to  see." 

"  Yes.    I'll  come  as  soon  as  I  can.    Good-by." 

I  listened  with  attentive  ear  to  that  short  collo- 
quy, as  though  it  concerned  me,  as  though  it  had  a 
real  interest  for  me.  There  was  something  sinister 
in  the  brevities  of  the  doctor  issuing,  with  a  curious 
effect  as  of  two  rough  surfaces  being  rubbed  to- 
gether, out  of  the  heart  of  the  little  disc  into  the 
soft  ear  of  Inez.  "Ah!"  he  had  emitted,  upon 
learning  that  I  was  gone;  and  that  was  all! 

I  ceased  to  be  quite  so  preoccupied  with  my 
terrible  loneliness,  and  my  thoughts  gradually 
grouped  themselves  around  the  immediate  future 
of  Inez.  I  felt  that  in  my  absence  everything  that 
had  to  be  done  would  be  done  wrongly  or  done 
clumsily.  I  foresaw  ghastly  sins  against  my  desires 
in  connection  with  the  interment  of  that  body. 
And  I  wished  intensely  to  communicate  to  some- 
body, in  all  exact  details,  how  the  affair  should  be 

152 


MARION'S   THOUGHTS 


conducted  so  that  it  might  not  offend  my  sense 
of  propriety.  I  knew  too  well  that  Inez  would  err 
on  the  side  of  flagrancy  and  spectacular  emotion.  If 
I  had  had  anything  to  sacrifice  (which  I  had  not),  I 
would  have  eagerly  sacrificed  it  in  order  to  reduce 
to  a  minimum  the  spiritual  ineptitudes  incident  to 
a  customary  funeral.  And  although  I  knew  that 
that  body  was  nothing  but  unorganized  matter  in 
the  shape  of  an  organism,  I  was  animated  by  a 
keen,  vindictive  repugnance  to  it.  I  blamed  and 
hated  it  for  the  blindness  of  those  who  already  had 
comported  themselves,  and  those  who  soon  would 
comport  themselves,  in  front  of  it  ceremoniously, 
honoring  it  as  if  it  were  myself — while  I  ... 

And  I  thought  of  all  the  mistakes  that  Inez 
would  commit  in  relation  to  my  estate,  and  the 
trouble  she  would  unnecessarily  raise  up  for  her- 
self, and  the  disaster  which  she  might  make  of  the 
remainder  of  her  life.  And  I  wondered  what  Mary 
would  do  without  her  brother.  I  wanted  to  inter- 
fere in  a  thousand  things,  the  very  least  as  well  as 
the  very  greatest.  I  burned  in  a  fever  of  anxieties 
and  apprehensions  about  matters  which  I  could  in 
no  manner  influence  and  which  could  in  no  manner 
influence  my  lot.  The  sheer  absurdity  of  most  hu- 
man activities  worried  me,  and  my  inability  to  pre- 
vent that  absurdity. 

153 


THE  GLIMPSE 


This  obsession  enlarged.  And  suddenly  with  a 
strange,  disconcerting  abruptness,  I  had  a  view  of 
the  whole  human  race  engaged  in  the  business  of 
moving  matter  from  one  place  to  another.  These 
creatures,  to  whom  I  was  now  foreign  and  superior 
(in  my  fearful  solitude),  seemed  to  exhaust  them- 
selves solely  in  this  crude,  physical  task.  It  was 
not  merely  ships,  railways,  trams,  omnibuses,  cabs, 
lifts,  and  the  post.  It  was  shops,  mines,  restau- 
rants, water,  light,  drainage — everything  that  was 
deemed  important  in  the  important  assemblages  of 
men.  Nearly  the  entire  contents  of  every  newspa- 
per every  day  were  devoted  to  this  ridiculous  ques- 
tion of  moving  matter  from  one  place  to  another; 
it  constituted  nearly  the  whole  of  human  history. 
And  I  was  astonished  that  I  had  never  before  been 
struck  by  the  huge,  obvious  fact.  The  more  I  con- 
templated it  the  more  absurd  it  seemed  to  me,  and 
the  lower  my  estimate  of  humanity,  fell.  And  I 
said  to  myself,  astounded,  shocked :("  Why!  Spir- 
itual evolution  has  not  begun — has  not  begun  with 
them!  Cannot  begin  until  they  come  to  see  what 
now  I  see  so  plainly!  They  are  children!  They  are 
navvies  and  porters!  "  I  was  overwhelmed  by  the 
wonder  of  the  generalization  about  humanity 
which  I  had  discovered. 

All  this  was  pushed  violently  out  of  my  mind  by 
154 


MARION'S    THOUGHTS 


the  opening  of  the  door  between  the  study  and  the 
drawing-room.  Instinctively  I  shrank  back  as  far 
as  I  could  into  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  I 
thought:  "  I  shall  be  discovered!  "  And  whereas 
a  while  ago  I  was  desolate  at  the  failure  of  either 
woman  to  see  me,  now  I  was  afraid  of  being  seen. 
I  did  not  wish  to  be  seen.  I  trembled  at  the  possi- 
bility of  being  seen. 

It  was  Marion  who  entered,  closing  the  door 
cautiously  behind  her.  She  turned  on  the  electric 
light,  and  looked  at  the  window.  But  she  did  not 
see  me.  Her  eyes  hesitated  on  the  window.  I 
thought,  shaking:  "  Supposing  she  decides  to  shut 
it  and  comes  toward  me,  what  will  happen  then?  " 
For  I  could  not  escape  from  the  immediate  vicin- 
ity of  the  window.  However,  her  eye  left  the  win- 
dow and  wandered  to  the  little  door  between  the 
study  and  the  bedroom.  This  door  had  remained 
open,  and  as  Marion  advanced  into  the  room  she 
could  see  what  I  saw  in  the  bedroom.  She  stood 
still  a  moment,  and  then,  resolute,  went  to  the  little 
door  and  shut  it.  Obviously  she  was  relieved  when 
she  had  done  so.  Then  she  sat  down  in  my  easy- 
chair — the  most  comfortable  chair  in  the  flat,  the 
chair  in  which  I  took  my  after-lunch  nap  and  which 
was  strictly  consecrate  to  me.  And  she  dropped 
her  head  against  one  of  the  ear  flaps,  and  stretched 
11  155 


THE   GLIMPSE 


out  her  legs.  She  was  still  wearing  her  starched 
apron,  but  no  cap.  Then  she  took  off  her  specta- 
cles, dropped  them  in  one  of  the  twin  pockets  of  her 
apron,  and  closed  her  eyes. 

Evidently  she  had  deemed  it  contrary  to  eti- 
quette that  she  should  lose  consciousness  in  the 
presence  of  her  mistress.  And  so,  fatigue  master- 
ing her,  she  had  crept  into  the  study. 

Now,  soon  after  Marion's  advent,  I  began  to 
lack  confidence  in  the  reliability  of  my  senses.  At 
any  rate,  the  reports  of  my  senses  confused  me  and 
dizzied  my  brain.  When  you  stand  before  a  large 
shop-window  filled  with  dark-colored  goods,  the 
images  of  the  street  behind  you  mingle  with  the 
objects  in  the  window.  And  according  to  the  in- 
tent of  your  mind,  those  images  will  fade  or  bright- 
en. If  you  wish  strongly  to  see  the  objects,  the 
images  will  disappear.  If  you  devote  your  vision 
to  the  images,  the  objects  will  disappear. 

I  was  aware  of  partial,  fleeting  gaps  in  the  phys- 
ical continuity  of  the  room — gaps  that  yawned 
and  closed  again.  It  was  as  though  something — 
nay,  a  whole  series  of  phenomena — was  intermit- 
tently breaking  through  the  physical  phenomena. 

My  spine  shivered,  struck  cold.  I  was  on  an- 
other threshold. 

.What  was  the  nature  of  the  phenomena  which 

156 


MARION'S   THOUGHTS 


were  battling  with  the  physical  phenomena  for  the 
possession  of  my  senses,  I  could  not  discern.  But 
I  saw  beautiful  flashes  of  color,  scarcely  irides- 
cences, but  the  tints  of  iridescence.  Then  I  per- 
ceived that  Marion  was  enveloped  in  color.  I 
thrilled.  She  was  surrounded  by  a  chromatic  form, 
somewhat  larger  than  herself,  otherwise  exactly 
corresponding  with  herself.  I  could  see  her  within 
it,  as  a  sort  of  large  nucleus  of  it.  The  colors, 
which  were  continually  modified,  were  not  suscep- 
tible of  description.  They  were  colors  that  I  had 
never  seen  before.  I  experienced  no  surprise  that 
I  had  never  seen  them  before.  I  felt  that  I  could 
not  have  seen  them  before.  I  knew,  too,  that  that 
envelope  (or  should  I  call  it  emanation?)  which 
surrounded  Marion  always  surrounded  her;  and 
that  it  had  been  invisible  only  to  eyes  that  could 
not  see  it.  Even  now  I  could  see  it  but  dimly,  but 
vaguely.  If  I  centralized  my  vision  on  the  physi- 
cal body  of  Marion,  the  encircling  form  almost  dis- 
appeared, but  I  could  not  lose  the  body  in  the 
steadfast  contemplation  of  its  envelope. 

After  a  period  of  this  exquisite  amazement  I  ob- 
served, very  faintly  at  first,  that  small  shapes  were 
escaping  one  by  one  from  that  part  of  the  chro- 
matic envelope  which  surrounded  Marion's  head. 
They  floated  away.  Not  bubbles!  Shapes  more 

157 


THE  GLIMPSE 


complex  than  spheres,  shapes  showing  design,  and 
the  persistence  of  one  design  with  minor  varia- 
tions! At  first  I  could  not  follow  them  in  their 
airy  flights.  But  they  grew  clearer  to  me.  I  traced 
them  one  after  another  to  a  corner  of  the  ceiling. 
Presently  I  could  distinguish  the  gradual  building 
of  each  of  them  in  the  recesses  of  that  chromatic 
envelope,  the  body  being  momentarily  lost  to 
sight. 

Again  I  thrilled. 

I  thought,  solemnly  ecstatic:  "They  are  her 
thoughts!  " 

And  I  was  drenched  in  an  affrighted  pleasure, 
caused  by  this  unique  and  lovely  experience.  It 
was  as  if  my  joy  bedewed  me. 

I  could  see  other  small  forms,  but  faintlier,  glid- 
ing about  the  room,  nearer  to  me.  I  braced  my 
volition  and  my  powers  to  follow  further  the  dis- 
appearing forms  born  of  Marion's  form.  And,  by 
perseverance,  I  watched  them  through  the  ceiling 
to  a  higher  floor,  where,  in  a  small  room  (whose 
outlines  were  misty  to  me),  they  hovered  caressing- 
ly around  another  chromatic  human  form  that  lay 
on  a  trestle  bed.  Within  the  colored  envelope  was 
the  body  of  a  youth.  I  recognized  his  face.  I  had 
often  seen  him  menially  engaged  about  the  ex- 
terior of  Palace  Court  Mansions.  He  was,  or 

158 


MARION'S   THOUGHTS 


seemed  to  me  now,  extraordinarily  handsome,  and 
his  attitude  was  distinguished  by  the  graceful  dig- 
nity of  a  fine  animal. 

I  withdrew  my  peering  vision  from  that  scene. 

Perhaps  it  was  from  modesty,  perhaps  because 
something  unusual  out  in  the  Square  had  attracted 
me.  There,  a  whole  row  of  tall  houses  and  elm 
trees  had  faded,  and  I  beheld  a  space  across  which 
thousands  of  forms  flashed  thronging.  They  did 
not  fly,  were  not  winged.  And  then  the  houses 
and  the  trees  effaced  them. 

When  I  looked  again  into  the  study,  the  flight 
of  Marion's  thoughts  had  ceased.  I  fixed  my  gaze 
on  her  body.  She  was  asleep.  The  physical  out- 
lines of  the  room  seemed  to  dissolve,  to  return, 
trembling,  distorted,  and  then  to  dissolve  again. 
And  then,  slowly,  I  saw  the  chromatic  envelope 
move  entirely  away  from  Marion's  body.  It 
floated  an  instant  by  the  side  of  her,  an  etherealized 
Marion.  It  moved  a  little  toward  me,  wavered,  its 
colors  subtly  changing  every  instant,  and  finally  it 
swept  upward,  following  the  direction  of  the 
stream  of  thoughts.  And  Marion  calmly  slept, 
dreaming. 


CHAPTER    XIX 

A   DRAMA 

fTAHE  physical  world  had  almost  dissolved  away. 
X  I  could  see,  jutting  like  some  obstinate  wreck- 
age of  a  catastrophe,  the  upper  corners  of  my  largest 
bookcase,  and  here  and  there  a  patch  of  carpet,  a 
fragment  of  the  window,  and  (after  all  else  had 
vanished)  a  red  Bernard-Moore  vase  that  seemed  to 
stand  self-supported  and  firm  on  the  shifting  colored 
currents  which  filled  the  spaces  around  me.  I  was 
now  in  the  midst  of  a  moving  shimmering  sea  of 
vapors.  Roughly,  what  I  saw  might  be  compared 
to  the  tinted  smoke  that  drifts  about  the  ground  after 
a  prolonged  burning  of  Bengal  lights  on  a  calm 
night.  But  the  texture  of  the  gaseous  fluid,  while 
far  finer,  was  at  the  same  time  closer,  and  the  cur- 
rents were  infinitely  more  complex,  though  not  more 
rapid.  There  were  no  blank  interstices.  Every- 
where was  motion,  vibration,  change,  close-woven 
radiance,  and  enchanting  beauty.  The  currents  were 
marked  by  different  colors  and  different  shades  of 
color :  a  range  of  glittering  and  yet  exceedingly  soft 
hues  unknown  to  my  physical  experience.  Yes ;  en- 

160 


A   DRAMA 


chanting  beauty!  I  was  enchanted;  I  was  under  a 
spell  of  wonder.  I  gazed  exactly  as  an  infant  gazes 
at  a  bright  object.  I  was,  in  fact,  an  infant.  I  knew 
that  I  could  not  comprehend  what  I  saw,  that  my 
observations  must  necessarily  be  falsified  by  a 
whole  series  of  naive  misapprehensions,  like  the  ob- 
servations of  a  child,  and  that  only  long  habit  would 
enable  me  to  see  truly  that  which  was  before  me. 
And  I  thought,  how  wondrous  and  lovely  beyond 
visions  was  this  spiritual  world! 

And  then  I  asked:  "Why  spiritual?"  Why 
"  spiritual  "  more  than  "  physical?  " 

If  hydrogen,  if  ether,  is  part  of  the  physical 
world,  why  must  this  not  be  called  physical?  It 
was  gaseous,  but  are  not  gases  physical  ?  It  was  less 
substantial  than  air,  but  it  had  substance,  and  I 
could  throw  it  into  agitation  and  deflect  its  ways. 
And  then  I  saw  that,  as  in  the  earthly  world,  so 
here,  and  so  forever,  it  was,  and  eternally  would  be, 
impossible  even  to  conceive  any  phenomenon  that 
was  not  fundamentally  physical.  Nothing  could  be 
supernatural.  This  gave  me  a  feeling  of  comfort- 
able security. 

Through  the  transparent  prismatic  quivering  sea 
floated  shapes  recalling  those  which  had  issued  from 
the  form  of  Marion,  more  brightly  or  more  deeply 
colored  than  the  sea,  each  a  dazzling  object  of  beauty 

161 


THE   GLIMPSE 


to  me — but  a  beauty  sometimes  sinister  and  formi- 
dable. They  moved,  by  means  invisible  to  my  child- 
ish eyes,  with  the  perfect  aptitude  of  fishes  in  water 
— luminous  fishes  in  a  lustrous  water,  radiance  in  ra- 
diance; some  wandered  without  apparent  purpose, 
and  these  were  of  vague  outline;  others,  quite  defi- 
nite in  form,  though  yieldingly  elastic,  passed  on- 
ward in  straight  paths,  urgent,  as  if  on  a  secret  and 
unique  errand.  Many  circled  around  my  head,  melt- 
ing gradually  into  the  sea,  but  constantly  renewed 
and,  therefore,  not  lessening  in  number. 

Ecstasy ! 

In  my  earthly  life  I  had  stood  in  ecstasy  before 
sunsets  the  beauty  of  which  my  imagination  could 
not  exceed.  .  .  .  Now  I  smiled  at  those  moments. 

I  steeped  myself  in  the  rapture  of  this  new  visual 
life. 

There  was  a  jarring  sound,  faint  and  disconcert- 
ing, like  the  sound  from  another  universe.  I  was 
aware,  with  a  dim  and  negligible  knowledge,  that  it 
was  caused  by  the  abrupt  blowing  to  of  the  window 
under  the  impulsion  of  some  earthly  breeze.  And 
instantly,  with  the  speed  of  an  emotion,  Marion's 
form  swept  through  the  translucent,  prismatic  sea, 
and  came  to  rest,  the  lower  limbs  stretched  forward 
and  the  head  leaning  curiously  to  one  side.  The 
form  flashed,  scintillating,  sheening,  incomparably 

162 


A    DRAMA 


brighter  than  the  bright  sea  which  it  had  perturbed 
into  new  paths  of  luminous  beauty. 

And  I  thought : 

"  The  banging  of  the  window  has  awakened 
Marion." 

It  thrilled  me  to  think  that  within  that  form,  rec- 
ondite, uncanny  as  a  wraith  is  uncanny  to  the  mor- 
tal sense,  was  concealed  the  earthly  body  of  Marion, 
with  its  gross  flesh,  its  clothes,  the  spectacles  in  the 
pocket  of  the  apron.  And  I  could  not  see  it.  It  was 
hidden  from  me  behind  the  dazzling  veil  of  more 
subtle  phenomena.  I  say  this  thrilled  me. 

I  thought: 

"  Was  that  her  soul,  which  fled  and  returned  ?  " 

I  had  imagined  the  soul  in  my  earthly  life,  so  far 
as  I  had  troubled  myself  with  the  impossible  task 
of  imagining  it,  as — as  what  ?  As  a  flame,  or  some- 
thing in  the  form  of  a  flame ;  some  wisp  of  divine 
vapor  insecurely  imprisoned  in  my  head.  But  now 
I  saw  that  the  earthly  body  of  Marion,  instead  of 
containing  an  ethereal  counterpart,  was  contained 
in  an  ethereal  counterpart.  I  knew,  rather  than  saw, 
that  I,  too,  was  a  form  resembling  the  ethereal  form 
of  Marion.  Was  this  the  soul?  Could  it  be  the 
soul?  If  so,  what  divine  particle  had  remained  in 
the  earthly  body  of  Marion  to  keep  it  in  pulsation 
during;  the  eager  soul's  clandestine  desertion? 


THE    GLIMPSE 


Marion  had  relinquished  her  earthly  body,  and  her 
body  slept.  I  had  relinquished  my  earthly  body — 
and  I  was  dead,  as  "  they  "  called  it.  Wherein  lay 
the  difference  between  our  cases? 

Child!  I  was  yet  an  infant,  with  the  inconven- 
ience of  being  aware  of  it. 

The  brilliant  form  of  Marion  fascinated  me,  the 
child!  It  also  was  full  of  vibrations,  currents,  and 
shimmerings ;  more  complex  and  puzzling  than  those 
of  the  fluid  in  which  it  floated  at  rest.  I  say  "  at 
rest ;  "  but  even  its  outline  was  never  still,  waving 
elastically  from  head  to  foot  in  scarce  perceptible 
undulations.  Every  part  of  it  modified  itself  con- 
tinuously, carrying  on  a  ceaseless  special  activity 
while  consenting  to  the  ceaseless  change.  The 
whole  was  a  miracle  of  adaptability.  .  .  .  Indescrib- 
able !  Yes,  though  in  my  earthly  life  I  would  have 
been  ashamed  to  write  that  word!  .  .  .  Imagine  a 
watch.  Imagine  the  complexity  of  a  watch  multi- 
plied a  thousandfold !  Imagine  it  undulating  in  ex- 
quisite curves  while  still  functioning  with  absolute 
exactitude!  Imagine  it  all  chromatically  luminif- 
erous !  That  is  the  gross  and  clumsy  best  I  can  do 
to  defeat  the  indescribability  of  that  form. 

When  Marion  had  served  me  at  dinner,  it  was 
that  wondrous,  waving,  lucent  form  that  had  bowed 
toward  me.  When  she  would  presently  offer  to  my 

164 


A   DRAMA 


wife  the  restoring  tea,  that  dazzling  form  would 
miraculously  undulate  behind  the  tray,  and  another, 
its  peer  in  ineffable  beauty,  would  bend  over  the 
earthen  cup!  .  .  .  Blind!  .  .  . 

A  vague  shape  swam  irresolutely  downward, 
from  above  or  behind  my  head,  hung,  and  dissolved 
gradually. 

Then  recommenced  the  emanation  of  clearly 
defined  floating  shapes  from  the  head  of  the  ethereal 
counterpart  of  Marion.  They  detached  themselves, 
one  after  another,  in  the  manner  of  bubbles,  and 
flowed  away  in  a  procession,  as  different  as  indi- 
viduals and  as  similar  as  Chinamen.  I  brought  to- 
gether all  my  childish  faculties  to  study  their  birth. 
Their  inception  was  indubitably  to  be  seen  in  a  whorl 
or  volution  of  the  omnipresent  fluid,  drawn  into  the 
form  of  Marion,  matured  there,  and  then  expelled. 
The  movements  and  modifications  were  so  rapid 
and  so  confusing  that  I  could  determine  no  more 
than  this.  But  as  each  shape  floated  off  from  the 
creative  form,  I  perceived  that  the  operations  of  the 
force  which  had  molded  it  had  also  had  their  effect 
on  the  creative  form  itself,  and  that  the  general  re- 
sult was  structural  cellular  change.  And  while  I 
marveled  I  knew  that  I  should  rightly  have  mar- 
veled more  had  it  been  otherwise. 

And  this  was  my  first  dim  view  of  the  physical 

165 


THE    GLIMPSE 


aspect  of  thought.  Only  a  little  while,  and  I  had 
by  an  old  instinct  sought  to  confine  the  attribute 
"  physical  "  to  the  earthly  world.  I  had  had  to  force 
myself  to  apply  it  to  this  other  world.  But  now  I 
understood  that  this  other  world  was  far  more  inti- 
mately and  visibly  physical  than  the  earthly.  In  the 
earthly,  one  timorously  postulated  the  physical  basis 
of  thought;  in  this  other  it  wras  patent.  And  I  saw 
that  words  were  a  device  invented  by  the  earthly 
world  to  lessen  the  inconveniences  caused  by  its  in- 
sensibility to  all  but  the  grossest  physical  phenom- 
ena. The  earthly  world  was  responsive  to  nothing 
finer  than  air;  hence  it  employed  the  vibrations  of 
air  to  remedy  the  tremendous  defects  of  its  eyesight. 
Now  I  noticed  that  two  plainly  distinct  species  of 
thought  shapes  were  being  thrown  off  from  Marion's 
form.  One  was  violet  colored,  the  other  a  delicate 
rose.  Sometimes  there  would  be  a  long  succession 
of  the  violet,  then  of  the  rose ;  then  they  would  alter- 
nate evenly.  And  then,  as  I  watched,  I  could  trace 
a  third  stream  of  almost  crude  vermilion  shapes 
darting  forth  in  a  direction  different  from  that  of 
the  other  two.  The  vermilion  shapes  alarmed  me, 
and  even  the  beauty  of  the  violet  shapes,  as  I  studied 
them,  inspired  me  with  a  certain  antipathy.  And, 
time  passing  and  my  vision  improving,  I  could  dis- 
cern that  the  effects,  on  the  woman's  ethereal  organ- 

166 


A   DRAMA 


ism,  of  these  three  different  series  of  acts  of  thought, 
were  markedly  dissimilar.  Their  dissimilarity  soon 
so  impressed  me  that  I  wondered  I  had  observed  any- 
thing else. 

I  followed  the  irregular  streams  of  vermilion 
shapes.  By  an  effort  of  concentration  I  could  fol- 
low their  absorbed  and  as  it  were  angry  flight 
through  the  endless  living  luminance.  And  I  found 
that  their  objective  was  the  form  of  another  woman, 
brighter  even  than  Marion's.  The  form  was  in  an 
upright  attitude,  nearly  still.  Its  earthly  counterpart 
was  not,  therefore,  asleep.  I  sought  intensely  to 
distinguish  the  earthly  counterpart  and  could  not. 
Then  I  saw  a  number  of  less  dazzling  forms,  hori- 
zontally disposed,  in  rows ;  and  I  reflected  upon  hos- 
pitals, barracks,  hotels.  But  the  horizontal  forms 
were  all  forms  of  women.  What  could  be  the  earthly 
solution  ? 

The  vermilion  shapes  that  had  so  resolutely  and 
inexorably  voyaged  under  Marion's  impulse  to  the 
vigil-keeping  woman  assaulted  with  extraordinary 
obstinacy  the  radiant  form  of  the  latter.  It  was  as 
though  they  had  been  endowed  with  an  energy,  a 
hatred  of  their  own;  it  was  as  if  they  lived  with  a 
vitality  of  their  own.  And  their  legion  increased; 
sometimes  they  completely  enveloped  the  radiant 
form  as  in  a  vast  menace. 


THE  GLIMPSE 


And  then — another  discovery  in  the  exquisite 
drama — I  traced  an  emanation  of  thought  shapes 
from  the  dazzling,  whirling  brain  that  the  vermilions 
were  attacking.  I  had  overlooked  them  at  first,  with 
my  infantile  careless  organs,  owing  to  the  extreme, 
pure  delicacy  of  their  rosy  tints.  But  having  secured 
my  attention,  they  held  it  by  the  esoteric  quality  of 
their  shy  beauty.  I  followed  them,  in  their  turn, 
leaving  the  radiant  form  enmeshed  in  inimical  ver- 
milions. Their  goal  was  the  male  form  which  I  had 
previously  learned  to  be  the  goal  of  Marion's 
thoughts  before  she  slept,  and  which  I  surely 
guessed  the  ethereal  part  of  her  had  visited  during 
her  dream.  I  could  no  longer  see  the  trestle  bed, 
nor  any  trace  of  the  earthly  man.  I  settled  for  my- 
self his  identity  chiefly  by  recognizing  the  unmis- 
takable stream  of  violet  and  rosy  shapes  which 
Marion  was  still  directing  upon  him. 

To  me,  the  na'ive  child,  it  was  a  stupendous  spec- 
tacle, a  spectacle  overwhelming  in  awe  and  beauty — 
this  soft  besieging,  this  importunity  or  invocation 
of  the  unconscious  male  form  by  the  double  and  the 
single  streams  of  thoughts  impelled  by  the  two 
women  distant  from  him  and  from  each  other !  The 
powerful  latent  elegance  of  the  transparent  and  glit- 
tering form,  reposing  inactive  yet  the  theater  of  in- 
numerable vital  currents  and  vibrations  that  showed 

168 


A   DRAMA 


themselves  in  shifting  brightness;  and  round  about 
it  the  dazzling  play  and  interplay  of  the  small,  ap- 
pealing, lucent  shapes,  each  influential  with  its  spe- 
cial energy!  The  simplicity  of  the  child  in  me  at 
once  grasped  the  significance  of  the  different  col- 
orations. The  violet  were  the  vehicles  of  desire, 
and  the  rose  were  the  messengers  of  unselfish  affec- 
tion. No  two  shapes  were  alike  in  tint  or  in  outline. 
There  were  endless  shades  of  rose;  the  tenderer 
came  from  the  unknown  woman,  whose  emissaries 
never  wore  the  formidable  violet  hue.  The  vermil- 
ions passing  from  Marion  to  the  unknown  woman 
were  the  shapes  of  jealous  hatred. 

I  remembered,  suddenly,  having  heard  that  the 
fair  young  man  who  was  employed  about  the  exterior 
of  Palace  Court  Mansions  had  previously  served  in 
some  outdoor  capacity  at  a  prison  for  women  con- 
victs. I  was  assisting  at  the  struggle  between  a 
parlor  maid  and  a  female  warder  for  the  heart  of  an 
odd-job  man.  Only  I  was  a  witness  of  that  aspect 
of  it  which  was  too  radiant  for  the  earthly  eye  to  see ; 
the  fine  physical  basis  of  it  all,  beyond  the  planes  of 
earthly  vision. 

And  I  thought : 

"  If  the  hidden  activity  of  such  souls  is  so  entranc- 
ingly  resplendent,  what  must  be  the  hidden  activity 
of  more  advanced  beings  ?  "  'And  again :  "  Perhaps, 

169 


THE   GLIMPSE 


nay,  certainly,  I  have  not  seen  all,  even  of  these 
three.  Beyond  what  I  have  seen  there  may  be — 
there  are — phenomena  still  more  amazing  in  beauty." 

In  the  hasty  insolence  of  a  suddenly  acquired 
knowledge  I  had  but  a  few  moments  ago  called  the 
earthly  race  a  race  of  porters  and  navvies.  Now  I 
knew  that  a  complete  physical  vision  of  even  a  porter 
or  a  navvy  would  dazzle  my  sight  and  my  intellect, 
newly  enlarged,  of  which  I  had  been  so  proud.  I 
humbled  myself  joyously  in  wonder.  The  solemn 
thing  was  that  "  they  "  themselves  lived  in  ignorance 
of  their  own  splendor,  and  of  the  fineness  of  their 
organism,  and  of  the  reach  of  their  faculties.  Their 
magnificence  was  veiled  from  them.  They  existed  in 
easy  mastery  amidst  miracles,  doing  miracles — and 
never  suspected.  They  did  not  suspect  the  hun- 
dredth part  of  the  powers  which  they  possessed  and 
constantly  exercised.  They  were  but  awaking  from 
unconsciousness  into  consciousness.  They  worked 
in  the  thick  gloom  of  instinct,  not  knowing  when 
they  did  good  for  themselves  and  when  evil.  They 
were  building  the  future  with  terrific  tools,  and 
guessed  not. 

As,  my  searching  eyes  returning  to  their  original 
objective,  I  watched  the  prismatic  form  of  Marion, 
with  the  head  on  one  side,  creating  and  dispatching 
thought  shapes  amidst  that  sea  of  fluid  light,  I  could 

170 


A   DRAMA 


not  help  marveling  at  the  chasm  between  the  self  of 
which  she  was  conscious  and  the  self  of  which  she 
was  unconscious.  Since  I  could  not  see  the  earthly 
view  of  Marion,  my  fancy  pictured  it.  She  reclined 
in  the  easy-chair,  her  tousled  head  against  one  of 
the  ear  flaps,  and  those  grotesque  spectacles  in  one 
of  the  pockets  of  her  apron.  Commanded  to  relate 
sincerely  what  experiences  she  had  passed  through, 
she  would  have  replied  that  she  had  gone  into  the 
study  of  her  late  master  to  rest,  had  thought  con- 
siderably about  a  man  whom  she  loved,  had  fallen 
asleep  and  dreamed  of  him,  had  been  awakened  by 
a  noise,  and  had  continued  to  think  about  her  lover, 
with  a  certain  preoccupation  concerning  another 
woman  whom  she  knew  to  be  interested  in  him.  And 
she  would  have  supposed  herself  to  be  precisely  the 
same  Marion  as  had  sat  down  in  the  chair.  That 
was  all.  She  could  not  have  even  the  dimmest  sur- 
mise that  she  possessed  a  body  compact  of  light,  that 
she  had  fabricated  volitional  shapes  and  sent  them, 
charged  with  her  vital  energy,  infallibly  to  fixed  des- 
tinations, that  she  had  physically  and  eternally  in- 
fluenced other  beings  at  a  distance,  that  the  radiant 
physical  part  of  her  had  visited  her  lover  where  he 
lay,  and  finally  that  she  was  ceaselessly  modifying 
her  own  organism  and  so  deciding  the  tendencies  of 
her  future. 

12  171 


THE   GLIMPSE 


I  gazed  at  the  lambent  brilliance  of  the  form, 
coruscating  those  chromatic  shapes.  And  I  was 
aware  of  pity  for  her.  I  wanted  somehow  to  warn 
her  of  the  grave  and  lasting  import  of  her  apparently 
trifling  activities.  I  wanted  to  protect  her  from  the 
tremendous  perils  of  her  own  ignorance  of  herself. 
And  instantly  I  saw,  wending  from  my  form  to  hers, 
a  series  of  pale  rose  shapes,  as  lovely  in  their  clear 
and  intricate  outlines  as  in  the  delicacy  of  their  tints. 
Previously,  I  had  emanated  none  but  gray  or  bluish 
shapes,  inchoate  or  vague,  and  without  defined  direc- 
tion. These  new  shapes  followed  one  another  pur- 
posefully in  a  waving  stream  and  surrounded  gently 
the  ethereal  form  of  Marion,  touching  it  in  soft  con- 
tacts and  pressures,  and  being,  perhaps,  infinitesi- 
mally  absorbed  into  it.  I  stood  afraid  of  my  own 
powers.  Soon  afterwards,  other  shapes,  and  harsher, 
visited  her,  and  then  her  bright  form  moved  gliding 
away. 

Had  I  sufficiently  willed  I  might  have  followed  it. 
But  I  did  not. 

I  was  intoxicated  by  knowledge,  and  the  thirst 
for  knowledge  seized  me  with  such  violence  that  I 
seemed  to  sink  into  a  kind  of  inanition.  "  More 
knowledge !  A  deeper  penetration  of  the  mystery ! 
In  that  alone  lies  happiness !  "  Such  were  my  ex- 
piring thoughts. 

172 


CHAPTER    XX 

THE    COST   OF    GRIEF 

I  GREW  conscious  of  external  vibrations  which 
were  setting  up  vibrations  with  myself.  I 
struggled  instinctively  against  this  disturbance,  as 
one  in  heavy  sleep  instinctively  seeks  to  repel  the 
influence  which  would  wake  him.  But  I  did  not 
succeed.  My  perceptive  faculties  became  unwill- 
ingly but  acutely  active.  I  was  still  in  the  bright 
living  atmosphere  of  innumerable  currents  and 
ever-changing  hues.  And  my  form  was  surrounded 
by  thought  shapes  transparent  and  prismatic.  I 
saw  now  that  immense  multitudes  of  these  shapes 
surged  everywhere  in  the  atmosphere,  but  that 
most  of  them  were  so  tenuous  and  slight  as  to  be 
scarcely  visible.  To  distinguish  them  from  the 
medium  in  which  they  moved  needed  practice.  Of 
the  shapes  specially  surrounding  myself  none  save 
two  species  produced  any  effect  on  me  whatever. 
But  those  two  species  did  assuredly  affect  me, 
causing  modifications  of  my  substance.  And  then 
I  understood,  wondering  why  I  had  not  understood 

173 


THE   GLIMPSE 


before,  that  they,  like  all  the  rest,  were  in  rapid 
vibration  and  that  their  power  over  myself  de- 
pended on  the  correspondence  of  their  vibrations 
with  certain  of  my  own.  And  I  saw  how  crude  and 
infantile  was  my  original  idea  that  the  thought 
shapes  acted  on  the  bright  forms  of  individuals  by 
being  absorbed  into  them. 

These  two  streams  of  thought  were,  as  I  felt  in- 
stantly, the  messengers  of  Inez  and  perhaps  Mar- 
ion, seeking  to  draw  me  again  to  the  earthly  plane. 
They  wanted  me ;  they  longed  for  me ;  they  grieved 
piteously  at  my  departure,  and  would  have  it  can- 
celed, undone;  they  wished  time  itself  to  roll  back. 
Perhaps  they  were  together  now,  those  two,  weep- 
ing quietly — Marion  weeping  respectfully.  Little 
they  guessed  that  they  were  enveloped  in  light  and 
that  their  thoughts,  urged  by  the  intensity  of  their 
desires,  were  shooting  forth  in  coruscating  torrents 
to  lure  me  whence  I  had  come.  The  shapes,  con- 
tinuously arriving,  were  surpassingly  beautiful  to 
the  sight;  one  stream  was  outrageously  beautiful — 
there  is  no  other  phrase  for  it.  But  with  that 
hysteric  violence  I  sought  to  shake  them  off,  to 
nullify  by  mere  volition  the  strange  force  of  their 
influence  over  me! 

I  saw  with  painful  alarm  an  impending  tragedy, 
myself  the  victim  and  those  two  women  the  igno- 

174 


THE   COST   OF   GRIEF 


rant  cause  of  it.  They  could  only  attract  me  near 
themselves,  to  leave  me  beating  once  more  in  vain 
against  the  shut  gates  of  humanity.  They  could 
never  see  me.  I  could  never  join  them.  Their 
grief — and  especially  the  savage,  remorseful  grief 
of  Inez — meant  nothing  but  disaster  for  me,  tor- 
ture, futility,  a  desolating  break  in  my  evolution! 

Was  it  possible  that  Inez  did  not  guess?  Was  it 
possible  that  she  was  blind  to  the  callous,  indiffer- 
ent selfishness  of  her  grief — that  grief  in  which  she 
certainly  took  pride? 

Yes,  it  was  possible;  it  was  sure.  The  crime 
against  me  was  due  to  naught  but  lack  of  reflec- 
tion. If  Inez  had  reflected  an  instant  she  must  have 
seen  that  to  wish  me  back  was  to  wish  me  evil, 
pain,  danger,  and  retrogression.  But  she  consid- 
ered only  the  smart  of  her  own  sorrow;  at  any  cost 
she  would  heal  that!  I,  too,  in  my  time,  had  been 
as  she  was. 

I  longed  passionately  to  go  forward.  Knowledge, 
more  and  stranger  knowledge,  was  calling  me  on. 
I  was  awake  again  to  the  divine  thirst.  But  these 
untowardly  beautiful  visitants,  with  their  soft 
urgency,  drew  me  to  retreat. 

Already  in  patches,  and  momentarily,  the  earth- 
ly world  broke  through  the  lucent  plane,  coarsely 
islanding  the  sea  of  radiance  with  fragments  of 

175 


THE   GLIMPSE 


the  existence  which  I  had  left.  Sometimes  I  could 
see  a  whole  room,  a  whole  street,  clouds,  a  steeple 
— apparent  and  then  gone.  All  was  unfamiliar,  un- 
recognizable. Probably  I  should  have  discovered 
myself  in  my  own  home,  had  I  not  struggled  fiercely 
against  any  such  destination.  I  was  like  a  ship 
that,  determined  not  to  fly  before  the  wind,  slides 
across  it  at  an  angle,  subject  to  it  but  defying  it.  I 
saw  multitudes  of  radiant  forms  sweeping  along 
together  in  the  sea  of  light,  and  then  solitary  ones, 
and  then  more,  traveling  in  an  opposite  direction. 
I  saw  groups  of  radiant  animals,  I  saw  mysterious 
radiant  creatures  resembling  nothing  in  my  ex- 
perience, engaged  intensely  in  activities  as  mys- 
terious as  themselves.  All  these  waving  in  the  far- 
stretching,  vibrant  translucency  cloven  by  sudden 
irruptions  of  gross  earthly  phenomena.  I  was 
dazed. 

Then  the  translucency  grew  more  somber;  of  a 
darker  glow  and  flush.  And  I  saw  hundreds  of 
male  forms  on  the  same  plane  as  myself,  but  less 
lustrous  than  any  I  had  yet  encountered,  crowding 
toward  one  spot.  -And  as  the  atmosphere  in  which 
they  waved  became  more  lurid,  I  distinguished  the 
roofs  and  towers  of  a  public  square  intruding  in  it, 
and  particularly  a  building  that  glared  with  col- 
ored earthly  lights.  The  waving  forms  of  my  fel- 


THE    COST   OF    GRIEF 


lows  besieged  this  building;  some  floated  hesitant 
at  the  doors,  others  swept  ethereally  through  its 
coarse  earthly  walls  into  the  interior.  It  was  a 
fashionable  music  hall,  the  Ottoman,  to  which  John 
Hulse  had  several  times  taken  me.  I  could  see 
simultaneously  the  exterior  and  the  interior,  with 
its  horseshoe  shape  and  its  three  garish  prome- 
nades one  above  another,  and  the  stage  like  a  box 
with  one  side  removed.  It  was  crammed  with 
earthly  beings  of  both  sexes,  either  intent  upon  the 
transactions  of  the  stage  or  eying  each  other  as 
they  walked  to  and  fro  in  the  promenades.  A 
strange,  ridiculous  spectacle!  And  all  bathed,  in- 
terpenetrated by  the  darkly  luminiferous  sea  in 
which  waved  I  and  my  fellows!  Mournful  confu- 
sion of  two  planes!  A  grievous  band,  my  fellows — 
sinister,  anxious,  unhappy,  agog,  lickerish.  See 
the  timid  regiment  that  dared  not  or  could  not 
enter!  See  their  set  eyes!  And  see  those  within, 
waving  and  wending,  dully  chromatic,  among  the 
promenading  women  whose  gaudy  clothes  were 
obscured  by  the  luminosity  which  emanated  from 
each  of  them.  Unconscious  music  hall!  Conflict 
and  altercation  of  lights,  planes,  and  existences! 
Could  they  have  surmised,  those  earthly  ones,  could 
they  have  truly  glimpsed  their  visitants  or  even 
themselves — what  a  scene  of  terror!  .  .  .  The 

177 


THE   GLIMPSE 


earthly  lights  began  to  fade,  the  earthly  beings 
poured  out,  stampeding  into  the  open  square,  and 
so  separated  into  groups  and  units.  And  my  fel- 
lows turned  disappointed  and  unsatisfied  away. 
But  some  could  not  leave  the  building;  they  waved 
within  it  or  without  it,  held  perhaps  by  forces 
which  they  themselves  had  unwittingly  created. 

I  slanted  onward,  cheerless  and  chagrined,  but 
feeling  less  and  less  the  magnetic  influence  of  those 
beautiful  thought  shapes  which  were,  however,  still 
following  me  from  Inez.  And  after  other  similar 
and  possibly  stranger  spectacles  than  that  of  the 
square,  I  seemed  to  quit  entirely  the  range  of 
earthliness,  and  I  was  once  more  in  the  radiant  and 
thrilled  atmosphere  of  moving  color  unstained  by 
any  gross  invasion.  My  mood  lightened  as  I  voy- 
aged. And  at  length  I  perceived  that  this  ocean 
was  a  solitude  for  me.  I  alone  deflected  its  mul- 
titudinous currents.  No  thought  shapes  even  wan- 
dered through  it,  save  a  few  that  still  obstinately 
but  faintly  pursued  myself. 

And  then  I  descried  a  brighter  luminance.  And 
I  approached  it,  nearer  and  nearer;  until,  compared 
to  its  splendor,  the  splendor  of  the  ambient  atmos- 
phere was  darkness.  And  amidst  the  glittering 
rays  which  darted  around  the  luminance,  my  daz- 
zled eyes  seemed  to  distinguish  a  form  of  pure 

178 


THE   COST   OF    GRIEF 


light.  I  trembled.  Drea4  was  upon  me.  I  wanted 
to  draw  still  nearer.  But  I  dared  not.  My  pride 
refused  me.  I  feared,  not  for  my  safety,  but  lest  I 
might  encounter  a  greater  than  I.  Cowardice! 
Always  I  had  declined  to  bow  to  the  conception  of 
a  spiritual  superior.  I  turned  and  fled.  Yes,  it 
was  a  flight.  Not  a  single  thought  shape  now 
dogged  me.  I  was  solitary. 


CHAPTER    XXI 

FREEDOM 

CONCEIVE  the  luminous  air,  less  agitated 
here  by  currents,  but  still  flashing  and 
sparkling  in  delicate  hues,  strange  even  to  my  now 
accustomed  eyes.  I  have  called  it  a  sea,  in  my  for- 
lorn attempts  after  the  impossible  adequacy  of  de- 
scription. Dismiss  any  idea  of  humidity,  of  resist- 
ance, of  embarrassment,  of  unusualness.  I  existed 
in  an  element  that  was  my  element,  as  proper  and 
as  necessary  to  me  as  earthly  air  once.  That  I 
should  live  in  diffused  lighten  a  visible  atmosphere, 
in  an  environment  of  transparencies,  seemed  abso- 
lutely natural  to  me.  I  say  this  lest  I  should  have 
inadvertently  led  you  to  conceive  me  as  miracu- 
lously swimming  through  miraculous  wet  waves,  or 
moving  half  blinded  amidst  the  colored  fumes  of 
unimagined  fires.  I  was  at  home. 

Save  myself  and  this  encircling  air,  the  sole 
phenomena  were  the  vague  thought  shapes  which 
constantly  emanated  from  me,  floating  idle  near  for 
a  time  and  then  vanishing. 

I  was  alone.  Before  my  death,  my  greatest 
pleasure  had  been  in  reflection.  The  habit  of  re- 

180 


FREEDOM 


flection  was  assuredly  dearer  to  me  than  no  matter 
what  companionship;  and  I  would  not  have  sacri- 
ficed it  to  gain  any  reputation  whatever.  Yet  if  it 
had  been  remarked  to  me,  before  my  death:  "  You 
are  happiest  when  you  withdraw  within  yourself," 
I  should  have  sincerely  denied  the  assertion.  I 
now  perceived  how  true  it  would  have  been.  With 
what  a  feeling  of  almost  ecstatic  joy  and  freedom 
I  used  to  plunge  into  the  streets  in  order  to  muse 
at  my  ease!  With  what  deep  satisfaction  I  savored 
my  contemplations,  even  when  they  were  gloomy, 
as  ordinarily  they  were.  A  futile  self-indulgence! 

In  this  life  and  light  bestowing  atmosphere,  with 
a  mental  apparatus  incomparably  less  defective 
than  that  other,  I  mused  for  an  eternity,  amidst 
conditions  of  unexampled  freedom,  except  the  lib- 
erty to  encounter  other  phenomena.  And  I  said  to 
myself: 

"  Should  this  be  likened  to  heaven  or  to  hell?  " 

And  I  replied: 

"  To  both."  It  was  neither  distinctly  a  reward 
nor  distinctly  a  punishment  (for  a  punishment  is 
also  a  reward),  but  a  consequence,  a  sequel. 

I  had  no  sense  of  time  nor  of  change.  There 
was  no  morning,  no  night.  Nor  did  I  desire  these 
external  accidents.  I  was  set  and  fixed  in  a  calm, 
omnipresent,  vacuous  beauty,  inviolate. 

181 


CHAPTER    XXII 

THE    WOMAN 

A  DESIRE  awakened  in  me  for  companion- 
ship. It  waxed,  became  definite  and  precise. 
For  a  space  I  had  the  sensation  of  being  no  longer 
alone,  but  my  eyes  could  not  confirm  the  sensa- 
tion. Then,  near  me,  without  surprise,  but  with 
rapture,  I  saw  a  woman.  She  was  more  radiant 
than  any  radiant  creature  I  had  yet  seen,  save  the 
one  from  whose  light  I  had  retreated,  and  whom 
indeed  I  could  not  be  said  to  have  veritably  seen. 
She  was  the  acme  of  the  beautiful  in  my  experi- 
ence; in  face,  in  figure,  and  in  grace.  She  saw  me 
without  surprise,  but  with  rapture. 
I  shared  eternity  with  this  woman. 
We  passed  through  an  existence  on  a  level  of 
noble  simplicity  not  to  be  conceived  on  the  earthly 
plane — noble  in  its  passion,  in  its  repose,  in  all  its 
intercourse,  mental  and  emotional.  We  were  never, 
as  the  phrase  is,  "  brought  to  earth  "  by  the  petti- 
ness of  life.  The  conditions  of  our  life  eliminated 
any  pettiness.  Even  our  bodies  did  not  weigh 

182 


THE   WOMAN 


upon  us,  obstinate  in  their  grossness.  Our  rela- 
tions were  purified  by  the  complete  absence  of  ap- 
prehension, serious  or  trifling.  We  did  not  fear  the 
morrow,  nor  the  fragility  of  the  physical  frame,  nor 
penury,  nor  death,  nor  the  soul's  capriciousness, 
nor  the  wound  of  an  ugly  vision,  nor  the  incursion 
of  another's  grief  into  our  bliss.  Our  life  together 
was  the  essence  of  life,  classically  purged  of  the  ex- 
trinsic; it  was  raised  to  the  elemental. 

We  had  not  even  names. 

She  combined  in  her  nature  all  fine  qualities, 
even  the  most  opposite.  She  was  the  very  spirit  of 
grace;  never  did  she  lapse  from  grace.  All  the 
physical  manifestations  of  her  were  lovely.  She 
was  more  feminine  than  any  being  of  her  sex  that 
I  had  ever  seen.  She  was  yielding;  she  was 
acquiescent;  she  was  the  embodiment  of  surrender. 
Yet  when  she  had  given  all,  she  had  more  to  give, 
and  after  every  sort  of  compliance  her  own  power- 
ful individuality  remained  intact.  She  reflected, 
but  was  not  a  glass.  Her  receptivity  exalted  me, 
but  did  not  lower  herself.  She  was  always  ready 
to  mold  her  mood  to  mine;  but  when  I  wished  to 
mold  mine  to  hers,  she  had  sufficient  force  to  make 
the  freak  a  valuable  experience.  She  had  the  per- 
fect modesty  of  utter  shamelessness.  She  recon- 
ciled dignity  with  capriciousness,  and  capricious- 

183 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ness  with  reason.  She  was  both  intuitive  and 
rational.  She  never  argued  like  a  woman  except  in 
circumstances  when  the  result  would  be  creditable 
to  each  of  us.  She  never  sheltered  herself,  against 
me,  behind  her  womanhood.  She  had,  to  a  degree 
that  did  not  cease  to  be  astounding,  the  skill  to  pre- 
serve my  self-respect  and  her  own  and  my  respect 
for  her:  feat  of  supreme  difficulty;  feat  also  neces- 
sary to  a  perfect  relationship!  She  soothed  with- 
out enervating.  She  stimulated  without  fatiguing. 
She  was  constant  without  monotony.  She  was 
faultless  without  being  tedious. 

And  she  had  a  glance.  .  .  . 

Before  my  death  I  had  impatiently  demanded,  in 
the  excess  of  my  fastidiousness,  why  all  women 
could  not  be  rolled  into  one  woman  for  the  com- 
panionship of  a  man.  I  had  envisaged  such  an  all- 
comprehensive  woman  as  an  impossible  ideal. 
Here  it  was  realized.  Here  it  was  much  more  than 
realized,  for  she  had  every  fine  quality  in  greater 
profusion  than  I  had  met  any  single  fine  quality  in 
any  woman  before.  As  an  instrument  of  every  no- 
ble pleasure,  she  exceeded  the  dream  as  the  dream 
exceeded  the  previous  reality.  She  was  mine.  She 
was  my  complement;  but  I  was  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  be  hers.  Her  destiny  was  to  complete 
mine.  She  was  happy  in  it.  She  asked  no  more. 

184 


THE   WOMAN 


With  all  her  glorious  faculties  and  charms,  she  was 
joyously  content  to  subserve  my  end.  It  was  the 
most  sublime  flattery  that  could  be  conceived. 

"  Is  it  heaven  or  hell?  "  I  asked  myself,  in  the 
midst  of  eternity. 

And  after  an  eternal  pause,  I  replied: 

"  Both." 

I  thus  lived  between  meditation  and  the  woman, 
wrapped  in  beauty. 

Whether  she  knew  that  I  was  in  heaven  and  in 
hell  I  could  not  guess.  Though  her  very  soul 
seemed  to  have  the  transparency  of  crystal,  I  could 
not  guess.  This  was  the  unique,  insoluble  enigma 
that  the  wondrous  creature  offered  to  my  intelli- 
gence. 


'CHAPTER    XXIII 

THE    PALACE 

IT  was  she  who  descried  the  palace.  I  call  it  a 
palace,  not  because  it  was  immense  and  gorgeous, 
but  because  of  its  impressive  dignity  and  stateliness. 
It  rose,  secure  upon  no  foundations,  aloft  in  the 
luminiferous  ether,  glittering  prismatically  as  every- 
thing glittered,  somewhat  brighter  than  the  pulsating 
air,  rather  less  bright  than  ourselves.  It  so  nearly 
matched  the  air  in  hues  and  radiance,  that  at  first  I 
could  scarcely  distinguish  the  form  of  its  architec- 
ture ;  it  was  like  an  edifice  of  pearl  seen  faintly  in  a 
sun-steeped  mist.  It  seemed  unreal.  But  it  was 
real  enough.  Presently,  I  could  decipher  its  dome, 
its  slender  pillars  masking  its  walls,  its  cornices,  and 
its  inviting  portal.  It  had  no  windows. 

On  the  radiant  plane  it  was  the  only  object  I  had 
met  whose  outlines  did  not  continuously  wave.  It 
existed  rigid  as  a  whole,  but  within  the  undeflected 
outlines,  a  slight  vibration  of  the  material  itself  could 
be  observed. 

186 


THE   PALACE 


I  entered  alone.  And  when  I  beheld  its  interior 
I  exclaimed  softly  to  myself 

"Of  course!" 

It  was  a  library.  I  was  a  bookman ;  I  had  always 
been  a  bookman.  From  adolescence  books  had  been 
one  of  my  passions.  Books  not  merely — and  per- 
haps not  chiefly — as  vehicles  of  learning  or  knowl- 
edge, but  books  as  books,  books  as  entities,  books  as 
beautiful  things,  books  as  historical  antiquities,  books 
as  repositories  of  memorable  associations.  Ques- 
tions of  type,  ink,  paper,  margins,  watermarks,  pagi- 
nations, bindings,  were  capable  of  really  agitating 
me.  I  was  too  sensitive  and  catholic  a  lover  of  books 
to  be  a  scholar  in  the  strict  modern  meaning  of  the 
term.  My  magnum  opus  was  not  a  work  of  scholar- 
ship, and  even  such  scholarship  as  it  comprised  had 
been  attained  by  a  labor  hateful  to  me.  I  would  in- 
hale the  scholarship  of  others  as  a  sweet  smell.  I 
would  gather  it  like  honey,  but  eclectically,  never  ex- 
hausting one  flower  before  trying  the  next.  My 
knowledge  was,  perhaps,  considerable,  but  it  was  un- 
organized. And  my  principal  claim  to  consideration 
was  that  I  could  wander  in  any  demesne  of  culture 
without  having  the  awkward  air  of  a  stranger.  In 
brief,  I  was  comprehensively  bookish. 

I  had  dreamed  of  libraries,  as  every  bookman  has 
dreamed  of  libraries.  This  one  did  not  correspond 
13  187 


THE   GLIMPSE 


with  my  dream,  because  it  went  beyond  my  dream  in 
every  particular.  I  could  see  that  at  a  glance,  by 
the  look  of  the  volumes,  by  the  disposition  of  the 
volumes,  and  by  the  machinery  of  research.  No 
book  in  any  noble  library  is  so  interesting,  so  reveal- 
ing, as  the  catalogue  of  it.  Every  bookman  has  dis- 
covered this  truth  for  himself.  The  catalogue  of 
this  library  was  ranged  on  a  series  of  low  shelves 
under  the  dome.  The  catalogue  of  this  library  was 
more  finely  printed,  and  more  superbly  bound  than 
any  book  that  I  had  ever  seen.  Each  quarto  volume 
was  an  individual  triumph  of  typography.  The 
setting  of  the  page — desperate  problem  in  catalogue 
or  dictionary — was  a  masterpiece  of  technical  in- 
genuity. Not  till  my  nostrils  had  quivered  to  these 
delights,  did  I  turn  to  the  plan  of  the  catalogue,  with 
its  system  of  two  simultaneous  alphabets,  so  intri- 
cate and  yet  so  effectively  simple.  The  catalogue  in 
an  instant  of  time  told  me  more  of  the  library  than  I 
could  easily  believe. 

Lying  open  on  the  desk  above  the  rows  of  the 
catalogue  was  a  folio,  open :  Henry  Stephen's  edition 
of  Herodotus,  familiar  to  amateurs  of  impartial  taste 
as  one  of  the  most  beautiful  books  existing  in  the 
Greek  character.  But  not  such  an  example  of  the 
treasure  as  I  had  seen !  An  example  transmuted  into 
the  very  divinity  of  bibliophily!  Radiant,  light- 

188 


THE    PALACE 


giving,  immaculate !  To  touch  it  was  to  thrill.  And 
every  book,  in  its  degree,  was  thus  consummated  into 
the  transcendent. 

I  began  to  use  the  library.  I  said  to  myself: 
"  This  alone  lacked."  And  I  knew  how  to  use  it. 
I  was  worthy  of  it.  It  was  an  instrument  which  I 
could  employ  without  degrading  it.  My  assimilative 
powers  astonished  me,  though  I  knew  that  they  were 
tremendously  enriched.  The  rapidity  with  which  I 
could  seize  the  principles  of  an  unknown  language 
was  specially  exciting. 

In  the  library  I  spent  an  eternity,  making  contacts 
with  all  cultures,  and  acquiring  an  erudition  that  by 
the  standard  of  an  earthly  plane  would  be  deemed 
immeasurable.  But  I  never  exhausted  the  library. 
I  never  even  approached  its  confines.  I  never  saw 
the  beginning  of  the  end  of  it.  And  I  was  free.  I 
read  where  I  pleased ;  I  went  deep  where  I  pleased ; 
I  was  superficial  where  I  pleased.  I  had  no  task,  no 
obligation,  no  finite  goal.  My  one  aim  was  to  pro- 
cure pleasure  in  absorbing  that  which  was  delicate, 
refined,  humane,  curious,  distinguished,  in  the  emo- 
tional and  learned  literature  of  the  centuries.  I  was 
the  supreme  dilettante.  I  had  always  longed  to  carry 
the  cult  of  belles-lettres  to  unprecedented  heights. 
Now  I  accomplished  what  I  had  wished  to  accom- 
plish, and  tenfold  what  I  had  wished  to  accomplish, 

189 


THE   GLIMPSE 


amidst  conditions  that  fulfilled  the  ideal.  For  not 
merely  was  this  ardor  of  self-perfection  unattended 
by  any  personal  inconveniences,  but  it  involved  the 
neglect  of  no  duty. 

The  woman  was  happy  in  my  absorption,  and  she 
was  happy  when  I  drew  out  of  it  and  lost  myself  in 
her.  Part  of  her  destiny  was  to  be  solitary  when  I  had 
no  need  of  her,  and  the  weaving  of  one  part  of  her 
destiny  was  no  more  precious  to  her  than  the  weav- 
ing of  another.  It  was  inconceivable  that  her  glance 
should  reproach  me,  or  that  I  could  be  guilty 
toward  her.  Such  was  our  relation  that  my  every 
act,  because  it  was  my  act,  was  best  for  her. 

And  still  I  asked  myself: 

"  Is  it  heaven  or  hell?  " 

And  I  replied: 

"  It  is  both." 

I  began,  in  the  midst  of  delicious  and  calm  eter- 
nities of  perfect  realization  to  be  ever  so  dimly  aware 
within  me  of  disturbing  intuitions.  They  shot 
through  me,  were  gone,  and  were  forgotten.  They 
returned,  and  I  remembered  the  forgotten  flash  of 
them. 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

CULMINATION 

1THUS  lived  with  my  thoughts  and  with  the 
woman  in  and  out  of  the  palace  of  literatures, 
that  rested  firm  and  lovely  forever  on  no  foundation 
amidst  the  luminiferous  air.  I  was  continually  dis- 
covering new  pleasures  within  the  palace,  and  yet 
nothing  that  I  discovered  could  surprise  me ;  not  even 
the  pictures  and  sculptures  which  abounded  in 
quiet  aisles  of  it,  and  whose  tremendous  power  and 
beauty  were  even  less  susceptible  of  adequate  de- 
scription than  the  library  itself.  I  could  not  exist  in 
the  palace  without  being  the  constant  and  thrilled  ob- 
ject of  the  most  lofty  and  delicate  influences  of  art. 
Then  I  found  a  new  doorway  at  the  extremity 
of  the  palace,  and,  looking  from  it,  I  saw,  in  the 
universal  radiance,  distant  landscapes  and  seas. 
Never,  since  my  death,  till  then,  had  I  seen  a  land- 
scape. These  were  the  majestic,  absolute  perfecting 
of  earthly  landscapes — purified  of  the  accidental.  I 
can  only  liken  them,  clumsily,  to  the  landscapes  of 
the  greatest  Japanese  paintings,  vast,  simple,  over- 

191 


THE    GLIMPSE 


whelming  in  the  severe  sobriety  of  their  beauty. 
Mountains ;  valleys ;  rivers  that  wound  in  expressive 
and  faultless  curves  to  solemn  oceans;  and  the  line 
of  coasts!  All  more  radiant  than  the  radiant  air! 
All  transparently  gleaming  in  a  consonance  of  hues 
without  a  name !  All  bathed  in  the  speechless  calm 
of  eternity ! 

What  an  ennobling  and  fresh  impulse  to  the 
thoughts ! 

And,  nearer,  were  immense  gardens,  strictly  for- 
malized :  avenues,  alleys,  borders,  fountains,  trained 
trees,  geometric  spaces,  canals,  patterns  of 
flowers,  statuary,  belvideres.  And  the  chief  avenue 
ran,  widening  out  of  the  long  perspective,  right  up 
to  the  doorway  at  which  I  stood.  It  was  all  mine. 
And  with  the  woman  I  would  wander  in  it,  enfran- 
chised from  every  care  and  preoccupation.  Ideal 
nature  in  the  distance;  nature  subjugated  by  ideal 
art  around  us,  and  fine  art  itself  in  the  palace !  No 
time;  no  task!  Freedom  and  eternity! 

Then  I  came  to  the  first  of  the  pavilions  of  music, 
in  which  orchestras  and  smaller  groups  played  the 
most  sublime  and  the  most  accomplished  of  all  the 
music  that  was  known  to  me,  and  many  composi- 
tions which  were  unfamiliar  and  which  left  me  the 
ecstatic  and  silent  victim  of  their  power.  In  all  this 
music  the  exquisite  quality  of  the  tone  itself  was  what 

192 


CULMINATION 


first  amazed  me;  the  basic  material  out  of  which 
beauty  was  fashioned  was  itself  surpassingly  beauti- 
ful.    I  had  not  heard  such  instruments,  nor  such 
technique.    Nor  can  I  describe  this  music.    And  yet, 
I  could  have  described  it  then.    It  was  in  connection 
with  this  music  that  I  first  had  intercourse  with  be- 
ings other  than  the  woman  on  my  own  plane.    The 
musicians  themselves  were  hedged  away  from  me 
by  the  peculiar  construction  of  the  pavilions.     But 
there  were  other  listening  wanderers  in  the  gardens. 
And  they  were  ready  to  converse.     We  conversed 
with  familiar  ease,  unastonished  at  the  encounter, 
unharassed  by  any  curiosity  concerning  each  other, 
demanding  and  expecting  nothing  from  each  other 
but  subtlety,  justness,  and  clarity  in  our  critical  and 
comparative  appreciations  of  that  which  we  heard. 
I  was  indeed  among  equals ;  safe  from  the  horrid  jar 
of   ignorance,   violence,   or  prejudice.     These   ex- 
changes of  opinion,  these  confessions  of  emotional 
experience,  filled  in  the  most  delicious  manner  the 
pauses  of  the  music.    As  soon  as  the  mood  dictated 
I  departed  from  the  garden,  quitting  the  other  dilet- 
tanti without  any  regret,  but  with  the  pleasurable 
anticipation  of  meeting  them  again.    From  the  door- 
way I  would  watch  for  a  moment  the  beautiful  atti- 
tudes assumed  by  their  iridescent  forms  under  the 
waving  trees.     I  had  no  wish  for  closer  intimacy 

193 


THE   GLIMPSE 


with  them.  That  earthly  longing  to  tear  the  veil 
from  the  secrets  of  personality  seemed  somewhat 
infantile  to  me,  if  not  vulgar.  The  profound  inti- 
macy of  my  one  companion  sufficed.  I  savored  the 
society  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  garden ;  I  had  fer- 
vent joy  in  my  one  companion;  but  my  delight  in 
loneliness  never  lessened. 

In  my  loneliness  I  would  reflect  upon  the  strange 
sequence  of  my  history.  I  saw  that  the  supreme 
experience  of  the  music  had  been  reserved  for  me. 
I  understood  the  logical  order  of  the  phases.  I 
marveled  that  until  each  experience  came  I  should 
not  have  felt  the  lack  of  it.  I,  whose  concern  had 
been  supereminently  with  music,  had  not  consciously 
desired  music  till  I  heard  its  sound.  Desire  and  the 
satisfaction  of  desire  had  been  simultaneous. 

Enveloped  in  eternity  I  lived  amidst  universal  na- 
ture, and  amidst  music,  and  amidst  the  influences  of 
the  other  arts,  tasting  erudition,  smoothly  consort- 
ing with  equal  individualities,  losing  myself  awhile 
in  radiant  space  with  my  one  perfect  companion, 
and  at  moments  withdrawing  into  absolute  solitude 
that  I  might  know  what  I  was.  The  existence  was 
like  a  dream;  but  it  was  not  a  dream.  It  had  the 
magic  and  incredible  idealism  of  a  dream;  but  it 
was  not  a  dream.  It  was  a  physical  reality — visible, 
audible,  tangible.  It  lacked  naught.  Not  even  was 

194 


CULMINATION 


it  flawed  by  dark  tints  of  regret  for  those  familiari- 
ties and  those  faces  which  I  had  left  behind  on  the 
other  side  of  death.  No !  The  tie  with  that  other 
plane  seemed  to  be  definitely  snapped.  I  had  no 
sorrow. 

And  still,  I  asked  myself : 

"Is  this  heaven  or  hell?" 

And  the  answer  was  the  same  as  it  had  always 
been. 

And  those  disturbing  intuitions  revisited  me  with 
their  lancinating  flash,  frequently  and  more  fre- 
quently: forgotten,  and  insistently  recalling  them- 
selves to  my  memory,  made  forgetful  by  the  perfec- 
tion of  conceivable  happiness. 


CHAPTER    XXV 

THE    DEATH    OF    DESIRE 

AT  a  certain  moment,  after  an  unusually  long 
period  of  solitary  reflection,  I  became  aware 
of  the  possession  of  a  definite  and  paramount  idea. 
And  I  saw  its  shape,  differing  utterly  from  any 
other  shape.  I  saw  it  and  felt  it  suddenly,  but  the 
time  of  its  gestation  within  me  must  have  been  im- 
mense. It  was  the  fruit  of  all  those  persistent  and 
similar  strokes  of  intuition.  Revolutionary,  fatal, 
and  final  in  character,  it  nevertheless  neither  star- 
tled nor  intimidated  me.  I  beheld  it  calmly,  as 
though  I  had  been  acquainted  with  it  from  everlast- 
ing. It  was:  that  I  had  been,  and  was  still,  living 
in  hell.  (I  perhaps  need  not  say  that  I  use  the 
word  "  hell  "  for  its  large  associational  convenience, 
trusting  that  it  may  be  aptly  interpreted.)  My  lot 
did  not  partake  of  the  nature  of  heaven. 

Every  fine  and  beautiful  desire  which  had  con- 
stantly and  genuinely  actuated  me  in  that  other 
and  ended  existence,  had  in  this  existence  been 
realized  to  a  degree  transcendental  and  previously 

196 


THE    DEATH    OF    DESIRE 


unimaginable.  Every  such  desire  had  even  been 
purged  of  what  was  mean  and  accidental  in  it,  and 
had  passed  into  consummation  in  the  purest  essen- 
tial form,  free  from  all  trace  of  trivial  or  base  ad- 
mixtures. My  plan  for  the  extension  and  comple- 
tion of  my  egoism  had  been  impeccably  executed, 
either  by  me  or  for  me. 

Eternity  lapsed  onward  in  the  midst  of  universal 
radiance — and  I  was  in  hell.  The  foundation  of 
my  consciousness  was  an  affliction  so  intense  that 
during  an  eternity  I  had  generally  accepted  it  for 
a  bliss  equally  intense.  (And  indeed  it  is  within 
the  experience  of  everyone  that  when  pleasure  and 
pain  reach  a  certain  intensity  they  are  indistin- 
guishable). But  now  I  had  reached  the  stage  of 
clear  vision.  Strange  that  one  can  inhabit  hell 
without  the  sure  conviction  of  being  there! 

And  another  epochal  idea  was  born  in  me, 
equally  definite,  less  fundamental,  but  distressing. 
I  myself  had  created  those  instruments  to  the  reali- 
zation of  desire.  The  woman,  the  palace,  the  litera- 
tures, the  works  of  art,  the  garden,  the  music,  the 
musicians,  the  elegant  dilettanti,  the  formidable  and 
lovely  landscapes — I  had  created  them  all.  In- 
comparably marvelous  as  they  were,  they  were  yet 
the  toys  which  the  spiritual  child  in  me  had  created 
for  his  diversion  out  of  the  all-permeating  ethereal 

197 


THE   GLIMPSE 


essence  in  which  I  existed.  Or,  if  I  was  not  the 
creator,  I  was  the  cause  of  the  creative  acts.  The 
creative  acts  had  been  performed  at  my  will.  The 
order  of  the  universe  was  such  that  terrific  energies 
of  creation  were  in  subjection  to  my  impulses.  I  had 
dreamed — yes,  I  will  admit  now  what  previously  I 
had  denied — I  had  dreamed;  but  here  one  could 
not  dream  without  creating  realities.  The  elastic 
responsiveness  of  matter  was  so  sensitive  that 
vision  and  physical  fact  were  one. 

Even  the  woman  I  had  created.  She  was  su- 
pernal, but  she  was  only  the  blossom  of  my  de- 
sire; she  was  only  an  ineffable  extension  of  my 
egoism. 

I  say  that  this  knowledge  distressed  me.  It  was 
humiliating,  more  humiliating  than  any  other  ex- 
perience in  my  memory.  And  the  whole  of  my 
sublime  creation  gradually  descended  in  my  es- 
teem till  it  appeared — no,  not  tawdry,  though  I 
was  about  to  use  the  word — but  negligible !  Exqui- 
sitely and  painfully  negligible!  An  infant's  play- 
thing! 

And  yet  it  constituted  a  fabulously  prodigious 
array,  there  behind  me  on  the  borders  of  my  soli- 
tude. As  I  passed  it  mentally  in  review,  I  thrilled  in 
retrospect,  as  one  thrills  after  a  wonder  or  a  danger 
which  one  appreciates  only  when  it  is  over.  The 


THE   DEATH   OF   DESIRE 


sense  of  the  creative  power  of  thought  wrapped  me 
in  disconcerting  folds  of  the  uncanny.  That  wom- 
an!  ...  What  would  thought  not  do,  impelled  by 
desire?  How  did  I  stand,  the  creator,  toward  her, 
the  created?  Could  I  dissolve  her  back  into  the 
essence,  resuming  the  energy  which  I  had  breathed 
into  her?  Had  I  the  right  to  do  so?  This  that  I 
had  committed  was  the  most  mysterious  and  aw- 
ful of  sins.  I  dared  not  emerge  from  my  solitude, 
and,  returning  to  the  loveliness  which  my  desire 
had  brought  into  existence,  look  it  in  the  face!  No 
remorse  could  redeem  what  I  had  done!  Never- 
theless, a  force  that  sprang  from  the  soul  of  my 
soul  compelled  me,  all  shrinking  and  reluctant,  to 
revisit  my  vast  exploit. 

It  was  fading.  My  palace,  still  complete  in  every 
outline,  scarcely  affected  the  sight.  It  was  like 
air  against  radiant  air,  dimly  gleaming;  melting 
like  the  dream  it  was.  I  walked  through  it  as 
through  the  portaled  fabric  of  a  luminous  cloud. 
And  its  treasures  lay  serried  within  it,  faint  in  disso- 
lution. The  great  gardens  were  as  gardens  molded 
in  vapor,  and  their  pathways  nothing  but  beams  of 
some  pale  effluence.  And  I  could  see  the  forms  of 
the  amiable  and  cultured  dilettanti  grouped  to- 
gether in  the  final  attitudes  of  prostration;  and 
over  them  the  drooping  trees.  And  my  affrighted 

199 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ear  caught  the  thin  desolate  piping  of  music  expir- 
ing in  an  anguish  of  beauty;  while  a  faint  refulgence 
on  the  farthest  horizons  showed  where  the  majesty 
of  my  seas  and  mountains  was  dying. 

Yes,  she,  too,  was  there.  Her  bright  ebbing  was 
the  longest.  .  .  . 

At  last  I  was  alone  in  the  infinite  vibrating  at- 
mosphere from  which  the  miracle  of  my  creative 
dream  had  been  drawn,  and  into  which  it  had  again 
resolved.  And  then  I  felt  that  dissolution  awaited 
me  also.  And  I  perceived  with  the  suddenness  of 
a  revelation  that  I  had  not  yet  died.  I  had  not,  as 
I  thought,  been  through  death.  That  trifling  mu- 
tation which  sloughs  the  earthly  flesh  was  not 
death.  It  was  but  the  first  portico,  the  preliminary 
warning  of  the  real  truth.  The  real  death  meant 
the  end  of  desire,  and  it  now  approached.  I 
yearned  for  it.  It  was  the  last  of  my  desires;  it 
was  the  desire  which  closed  desire.  In  my  increas- 
ing lassitude  and  loss  of  strength,  I  spent  tremen- 
dous force  in  urging  myself  into  that  real  death,  so 
that  I  might  know  what  was  beyond  it.  The  pos- 
session of  such  knowledge  seemed  to  be  a  consid- 
eration dwarfing  all  others  into  nullity. 

And  it  was  as  if  I  cast  off  garment  after  garment 
of  radiance;  and  I  could  see  these  abandoned  shells 
floating  weakly  around  me  in  the  light. 

200 


THE   DEATH   OF   DESIRE 


And  then  there  visited  me  a  beatific  ministration 
— thought  shapes  that  had  traveled  through  im- 
measurable void  to  soothe  me  into  unconscious- 
ness. They  were  the  thoughts  of  Inez.  She  was 
praying  for  the  welfare  of  my  soul. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

BIRTH 

DEATH  is  an  awakening. 
Familiar  and  ancient  phrase!  A  survival 
from  the  wreck  of  creeds.  One  had  ceased  to  re- 
gard it  as  possessing  an  instant  significance.  One 
had  classed  it  with  the  pathetic  refuse  amidst  which 
it  lay.  A  corpse  from  which  the  soul  of  meaning 
had  escaped!  And  yet — it  is  astonishing  and  por- 
tentous how  the  immortal  spark  will  leap  out  of  the 
white  ashes,  and  burn  and  blind!  The  deep  truth  of 
the  phrase  burst  upon  me  in  a  tremendous  disclo- 
sure. The  phrase  had  been  debased  in  the  mouths 
of  fanatics,  hypocrites,  devotees,  and  hysterics  for 
thousands  of  years;  and  it  came  to  me  fresh,  vir- 
gin, and  exquisitely  apposite.  I  awoke.  I  knew 
what  it  was  to  quicken.  I  knew  what  it  was  to 
emerge  from  stupor,  dream,  nightmares,  and  illu- 
sion into  reality  and  activity.  I  had  the  poignant 
sense  of  life.  And  I  viewed  all  that  out  of  which 
I  had  awakened  with  a  pitiful  surprise,  not  violent 
but  gentle.  It  was  without  importance,  since  it 

202 


BIRTH 


was  over;  but,  nevertheless,  there  was  something 
wondrous,  something  that  strangely  touched  me, 
in  the  simple  fact  that  through  all  that  heavy 
and  agitated  sleep,  sleep  which  had  never  light- 
ened beyond  a  drowsiness  haunted  by  hallucina- 
tions, I  had  not  once  guessed  that  I  was  not  awake, 
that  I  was  not  truly  born.  And  all  the  past,  from 
its  dim  beginnings  on  the  plane  of  earth  to  the  last 
flicker  of  consciousness  in  the  death  of  my  desires, 
receded  whole,  swung  backward  into  the  infinitely 
remote,  and  became  history. 

The  limits  of  honest  description  are  now  being 
reached.  I  was  in  life.  I  knew  the  real.  But  I  can- 
not convey  the  impression  of  it.  No  feeling  of  awe, 
no  hesitation  about  unveiling  the  esoteric,  pre- 
vents me,  but  simply  the  fundamental  impossibility 
of  the  feat.  All  the  standards  of  comparison  are 
now  too  weakened. 

I  had,  even  in  my  stupor,  moved  amidst  light, 
chromatic,  prismatic,  amidst  transparencies  and 
dazzling  beauties.  I  had  already,  even  in  the  pro- 
gressive evolution  of  my  dreams  and  illusions,  en- 
joyed miraculous  powers  and  sensations,  pene- 
trating apparently  to  the  farthest  verge  of  physical 
capacities.  My  nightmares  had  closed  in  percep- 
tions and  knowledge  that  earlier  would  have 
seemed  incredible  of  achievement.  .  .  .  All  that — 
14  203 


THE   GLIMPSE 


in  the  adequate  relation  of  which  I  have  already 
failed,  and  must  have  failed,  even  with  a  glittering 
mosaic  of  superlatives — all  that  was  nothing!  All 
that  was  dull,  heavy,  dingy,  leaden,  inert,  lifeless. 

Imagine  intensity.  .  .  . 

See!  Imagine  the  central  living  fires  of  a  furnace, 
white-glowing  (or  what  you  call  white,  for  it  is 
utterly  different  from  the  white  of  snow),  shades 
of  light  passing  over  them  and  through  them, 
wavering  hues  of  no  color!  Imagine  the  depths  of 
that  terrific  vitality,  upon  which  your  eye  dare  not 
rest;  upon  which  even  your  imagination  dare  not 
rest  for  long,  lest  the  thrill  should  frighten  you! 
Imagine  this  intensity,  and  this  light  that  varies 
yet  is  without  color!  But  use  your  imagination  with 
skill  and  mastery.  Let  it  separate  the  blasting  de- 
structiveness  of  heat  from  this  light  and  this  in- 
tensity. .  .  . 

The  brain  must  accustom  itself.  A  world  of 
light  and  intensity.  .  .  . 

A  world  not  of  color. 

With  that,  a  world  of  lightness!  Not  immaterial, 
because  that  which  is  immaterial  cannot  be  con- 
ceived. But  matter  refined  to  a  tenuity  far  sur- 
passing the  ethereality  of  the  plane  from  which  I 
had  awakened.  And  yet  broadly  divisible  into  the 
three  degrees.  And  exceedingly  complex  in  its 

204 


BIRTH 


organization;  functioning  in  ten  thousand  novel 
ways;  expending  energy  as  it  were  in  an  ecstatic 
intoxication  of  irrepressible  vitality.  .  .  .  Pulsat- 
ing with  currents  of  vibration  that  flashed  through, 
modifying  themselves  innumerable  times  in  a  mo- 
ment! A  world  of  instant  responsiveness,  of  an- 
swer darting  to  impulse  with  the  speed  of  per- 
fect sensibility.  .  .  .  A-throb! 

Beings,  like  myself,  in  this  intense  environment, 
centers  of  still  more  intense  vitality;  unnumbered! 
A  few  outshining  the  rest  in  the  brightness  of  their 
intensity  and  the  bewildering  manifestations  of 
their  life.  And  here  and  there,  scarcely  discernible 
in  glory,  greater  beings,  beings  whose  glory  itself 
veiled  them,  and  who  freely  passed  into  and  from 
a  vast,  indistinguishable,  radiating  nucleus  of  force 
and  light  which  their  lesser  companions  seldom  ap- 
proached. In  my  sleep  I  had  seen  one  such 
greater  being  and  had  fled  in  illusory  fear,  fear 
from  which  I  was  delivered. 

This  immeasurable  universe  of  beings  was  in  the 
eternal  and  blissful  throe  of  intense  intercommu- 
nication! What  actuated  it,  what  threw  it  into  its 
fervor  of  life,  was  a  sort  of  sublime  frenzy  of  urgent 
mutual  sympathy.  The  intercommunication  was 
immediate,  the  exchange  of  thought  instantaneous 
in  this  environment  of  absolute  responsiveness.  It 

205 


THE   GLIMPSE 


went  on  incessantly,  universally,  and  with  an  ulti- 
mate vehemence.  It  was  an  everlasting  efferves- 
cence and  ebullition.  .  .  .  Imagine  the  sentient 
atoms  of  some  ineffable  whole,  separated  through 
aeons,  and  then  rejoining,  yearning  in  an  endless 
spasm  toward  a  supreme  coalescence.  .  .  .  At  mo- 
ments it  seemed  as  if  the  coalescence  was  accom- 
plished. Beings  and  environment  seemed  to  merge 
into  an  invisible  unity.  .  .  .  Then  the  atoms  would 
break  apart  and  resolve  again,  and  the  vehicle  in 
which  they  moved  would  whitely  glisten  once 
more  with  those  lovely  geometric  figures  that  were 
apparently  their  abstract  conceptions,  static. 

Imagine  the  solemn  calm  of  this  intense  life,  if 
you  can.  .  .  . 

And  I!  What  and  how  was  I,  atom  in  this  con- 
course? When  the  swimmer  unclothes,  and  aban- 
dons himself  to  the  water,  naked,  letting  the  water 
caress  the  whole  of  his  nakedness,  moving  his  limbs 
in  voluptuous  ease  untrammeled  by  even  the  light- 
est garment,  then,  as  never  under  other  conditions, 
he  is  aware  of  his  body;  and  perhaps  the  thought 
occurs  to  him  that  to  live  otherwise  than  in  that 
naked  freedom  is  not  to  live.  ...  So  was  I  aware 
for  the  first  time  of  my  body,  elastic,  responsive, 
and  free.  So  I  had  at  last  cast  off  the  hard,  stiff, 
encumbering  cases  which  in  my  visions  of  delusion 

206 


BIRTH 


I  had  accepted  for  my  body.  Astounding  that 
even  in  a  stupor  of  the  senses  I  could  have  sup- 
posed that  those  gross,  unresponsive  envelopes 
were  my  body!  Astounding  that  the  spark  of  life 
should  have  survived  those  stifling  imprisonments. 
.  .  .  Now  I  had  a  vivid  joy  in  my  body,  whose 
form,  in  its  eternal  changefulness,  maintained  a 
constant  surprise  of  pure  beauty.  Its  plasticity 
under  the  function  of  thought  was  an  ever-renewed 
miracle  of  curves.  It  was  the  creature  and  the  il- 
lustration of  my  thought  and  of  the  thoughts  which 
impinged  on  it.  It  thrilled  from  moment  to  mo- 
ment into  new  and  yet  individual  contours.  It  was 
always  I,  but  I  was  never  the  same.  In  brief,  life! 
.  .  .  But,  above  all,  the  sense  of  liberty  found,  the 
exquisite  enfranchisement  from  grossness!  Free 
life!  .  .  .  The  mere  incomparable  bliss  of  knowing 
what  real  life  was! 

Beyond  this  new  and  exciting  experience  of  the 
reality  of  life,  overshadowing  it,  reducing  it  to  the 
function  of  a  basis,  was  the  sense  of  companionship 
of  partaking  in  a  vast  and  profound  communion,  of 
utter  giving  and  utter  receiving,  of  transcendent 
interpenetration  of  spirit  by  spirit.  .  .  .  The  dou- 
ble bliss  of  realizing  myself  and  of  simultaneously 
merging  it  in  others!  .  .  .  Intimacy  more  raptur- 
ous, surrender  more  complete,  than  the  closest  in- 

207 


THE   GLIMPSE 


timacy  or  the  most  unreflecting  surrender  on  the 
lower  planes.  .  .  .  No  desire  but  to  outpour,  to 
enrich  the  universal  from  the  vase  of  the  soul,  to 
restore  that  which  in  the  origin  had  been  be- 
queathed. All  joy  seemed  to  be  here,  and  this  joy 
was  the  excuse  and  justification  for  the  exultant 
joy  in  the  discovery  of  the  self.  The  value  of  the 
treasure  was  only  potential  till  the  treasure  was  lav- 
ished in  an  ardor  of  altruistic  beneficence.  The 
sublime  instinct  of  the  self  was  to  plunge,  melt,  and 
be  lost.  This  was  the  last  supreme  impulse  of  the 
primal  urgency  toward  reality  and  truth.  This  was 
bliss. 

Imagine  this  fever,  this  riot  of  emotion,  directed 
and  controlled  by  intellectual  forces  of  a  strength, 
a  subtlety,  and  a  complexity  all  surpassing  experi- 
ence, having  gathered  up  into  themselves  the  whole 
harvest  of  experience.  Imagine  reason  and  rap- 
ture in  sublime  coordination!  .  .  .  No!  You  can- 
not. Failing  myself  in  the  impossible,  I  am  ask- 
ing you  to  succeed  in  it.  No  gallantry  of  the  brain 
can  cross  the  spaceless  gulf  between  two  planes.  I 
relinquish.  .  .  .  And  yet,  all  planes  are  one,  and 
there  is  in  you  that  which  may  divine  the  inex- 
pressible. 

Imagine  the  uncolored  light,  intensely  wavering; 
the  plastic  beauty  of  forms  mutually  responsive  in 

208 


BIRTH 


the  sensitive  fineness  of  the  medium;  the  greater  be- 
ings, veiled  in  films  of  splendor;  the  realization  of 
selves  in  freedom;  the  play  of  pure  intellect;  the 
fierce  and  calm  rapture  of  universal  communion; 
the  sublime  crisis  in  the  yearning  toward  ultimate 
unity!  Bliss!  .  .  .  Can  you? 


CHAPTER   XXVII 

THE  PAST 

IN  the  tremendous  calm  of  one  of  those  periods  of 
apparent  coalescence,  when  all  the  marvelous 
faculties  of  the  freed  organism  were  more  marvel- 
ously  intensified  and  enlarged,  I  could  review  my 
careers  from  birth.  I  mean  the  birth  into  the  earthly 
body.  I  saw  what  you  call  my  life  from  beginning 
to  end,  as  the  winding  course  of  a  river  seen  from  a 
high  mountain.  I  saw  it  equally  in  detail  and  as  a 
whole;  day  by  day  and  simultaneously.  It  was  for 
me,  as  I  chose,  either  forty  years  of  minute  acts,  or 
a  single  gesture  passing  in  an  instant  of  time.  It 
seemed  to  me — not  a  tragedy,  for  I  knew  the  sequel 
of  it,  but  nevertheless  tragic  in  quality;  and  exceed- 
ingly strange.  Doubly  strange!  Strange  in  itself, 
and  strange  in  my  attitude  toward  it  while  I  was 
living  it!  A  disconcerting — even  a  shocking — and 
a  revealing  strangeness! 

The  casing  of  this  "  me  "  in  a  colored  envelope 
which  though  fluid  (and  not  unresponsive)  was  in- 
finitely less  so  than  myself — that  alone  was  an  as- 

210 


THE    PAST 


tonishing  imprisonment;  but  that  this  casing  should 
be  interpenetrated  by  another,  of  an  impossible  gross- 
ness,  heaviness,  dullness.  .  .  .  "  Strange  "  was  a 
word  inadequate.  Understand  me — I  say  "  casing  " 
in  no  tone  of  scorn  for  these  envelopes.  I  recognized 
that  they  were  a  vital  extension  of  me,  that  they 
lived  by  a  separate  life  which,  however,  had  its  origin 
in  me.  But  what  a  prison  for  me !  Earthly  fancy 
had  never  constructed  or  even  conceived  a  prison  to 
vie  with  this  prison !  What  a  living  burial !  I  whose 
progressive  evolution  could  work  itself  out  by  none 
but  the  finest  vibrations — I  had  thrilled  in  vain 
against  these  callous  walls.  And  what  communica- 
tion from  beyond  could  ever  reach  me  through  them  ? 
They  were  impenetrable.  I  had  been  cut  off  from 
intercourse.  I  had  been  reduced  to  a  sort  of  coma 
of  futility  while  these  living  envelopes  went  their 
ways,  unguided.  I  had  been  helpless.  And  yet  not 
utterly  helpless — for  at  rare  intervals,  by  some  for- 
tunate coincidence  of  circumstances,  I  was  able  to 
give  a  fleeting  signal  of  myself,  or  to  catch  a  vibra- 
tion fine  enough  to  affect  me.  But  for  the  most 
part — numbness ! 

Such  was  the  experience,  the  ordeal,  through 
which  had  lain  the  path  of  my  evolution. 

The  immediate  commencement  appeared  less 
pathetic  than  what  followed.  In  the  immediate  com- 

211 


THE   GLIMPSE 


mencement  I  was  utterly  dependent;  my  separately 
living  body  was  utterly  dependent.  There  was  no 
choice  in  any  matter.  On  earth  the  existence  of 
the  infant  had  always  struck  me  as  extraordinarily 
pathetic  in  its  dependence.  But  now,  the  more 
poignant  pathos  showed  in  the  first  stirrings  of  in- 
dependence, in  the  first  attempts  to  use  that  ineffa- 
bly clumsy  instrument,  the  body — its  disabilities, 
its  disadvantages,  were  so  overpowering.  Always 
preoccupied  by  its  gross  needs!  Unable  to  live 
through  more  than  a  few  hours  unassisted!  Stiff 
and  hard !  And  yet  how  fragile !  Continually  in  mor- 
tal danger!  Slow  and  ineffective  in  movement,  deaf 
to  the  whole  range  of  sounds  except  the  coarsest  and 
nearest !  Blind  to  everything  except  the  outer  sur- 
faces of  a  few  objects  close  at  hand!  Insensible  to 
almost  all  vibrations!  Stumbling,  blundering!  .  .  . 
The  vision  might  have  been  less  painful  had  I  been 
alone  in  my  limitations.  But  I  had  been  one  of  mil- 
lions of  deaf,  sightless,  groping,  maladroit  entities 
that  jostled  each  other  obstinately  and  uselessly  in 
the  midst  of  a  wondrous  universe  hidden  from  them. 
Yes,  it  had  the  look  of  a  tragedy ! 

I  saw  myself,  in  my  moving  prison,  starved,  nulli- 
fied ;  unable  to  transmit  to  my  envelope  the  perfected 
potential  faculties  that  were  within. 

Even  what  my  enveloping  and  inferior  conscious- 
212 


THE   PAST 


ness  did  see  and  did  hear  and  did  feel,  it  saw  and 
heard  and  felt  wrongly.  It  was  continually  victim- 
ized by  illusions  and  delusions.  It  had  no  perception 
of  reality  at  all.  It  was  wrong,  wrong,  and  grew 
more  inextricably  wrong.  The  main  idea  underly- 
ing all  its  activity  was  wrong :  the  idea  of  gathering 
in  instead  of  giving  out.  Its  desires  multiplied.  Its 
imagined  well-being  depended  on  a  daily  increasing 
number  of  external  things.  That  these  multifarious 
things  in  no  manner  actually  contributed  to  its  well- 
being  did  not  in  the  least  discourage  its  obstinacy. 
The  direction  was  diametrically  wrong,  and  it  hur- 
ried faster  and  faster  in  that  direction,  not  heeding 
the  obstacles  it  met  and  the  hurts  it  received.  Its 
wrong-headedness,  seen  as  I  saw  it  afterwards  in 
that  tremendous  calm  of  freedom,  was  barely  credi- 
ble. Its  steady  cultivation  of  desire,  with  the  in- 
evitable result  of  an  accumulation  of  discontent,  was 
distressing  for  the  mere  stupidity  of  it.  Then,  the 
touching — yes,  the  touching — confidence  in  the 
potency  of  externals — externals  that  could  never  un- 
der any  circumstances  be  assimilated.  And,  worst, 
the  persistent  unwearied  attempts  toward  self- 
aggrandizement  of  all  kinds,  toward  the  creation 
of  a  wall  between  the  self  and  its  fellows,  toward 
the  centralization  of  the  self  upon  itself;  whereas 
the  sole  way  of  progress  was  so  obviously  in  com- 

213 


THE   GLIMPSE 


munion,  in  unifying,  in  the  rich  outpouring  of  the 
self. 

I  scanned  all  that  incarnation,  and  could  note 
scarcely  an  odd  hour  here  and  there  in  the  long 
reaches  of  the  years  that  had  not  been  devoted  to  a 
thickening  of  the  prison  barriers,  and  to  the  weaving 
of  despair.  Not  one  act  in  a  million  was  an  act  of 
communion,  of  outpouring.  And  so  I  followed  the 
course  of  my  infatuated  career  till  it  came  to  a  pause 
on  the  deathbed  in  Palace  Court  Mansions;  and  I 
could  see  that  unqualifiable  sight.  .  .  .  Consequence 
of  an  accident  brought  about  by  the  morbid  fever  of 
desire,  by  the  appalling  determination  to  aggrandize 
and  so  isolate  the  self,  by  a  ceaseless  and  violent  ego- 
tism. There  I  saw  the  coarser  envelope  lying;  fit 
symbol  in  its  grotesque  and  futile  seeming;  sur- 
rounded by  the  extraordinary  and  complex  appara- 
tus which  had  been  gradually  collected  together 
under  the  fixed  delusion  that  such  playthings  were 
an  aid  to  happiness!  The  childishness  of  it!  The 
facile,  inconstant  joy  in  trifles !  The  inability  to  en- 
visage a  simpler,  deeper,  and  larger  joy!  The 
strange  conviction  that  bliss  must  be  complex, 
changeful,  fleeting,  dependent  on  externals,  and 
strictly  personal ;  and  that  the  absence  of  these  quali- 
ties would  involve  monotony  and  tedium!  ...  I 
saw  that  coarse  shape  lying  with  the  bandage  round 

214 


THE    PAST 


its  head,  and  the  coins  covering  those  eyes  that  had 
never  see/i,  and  wondered  at  the  passionate  epic 
which  its  own  ineptitude  had  prematurely  closed. 
Oh,  heedless  one !  In  vain  had  those  ears  heard  the 
beginning  of  wisdom  which  somehow  had  got  it- 
self fairly  translated  into  the  gross  medium  of 
speech: 

"  The  kingdom  of  heaven  is  within  you !  " 
And  what  of  the  imprisoned  "  me  "  ?  I  was  al- 
most as  I  had  been  at  the  inception  of  the  ordeal. 
Not  much  worse,  and  very  little  better.  I  had  been 
protected  by  the  coarseness  of  the  envelope,  whose 
slow  and  heavy  vibrations  could  not  affect  me.  The 
immensely  greater  part  of  all  that  violence  and  that 
superficial  but  genuine  unhappiness  had  resulted  in 
nothing  whatever,  stultifying  itself.  The  "  me  "  was 
but  atrophied  by  inactivity.  And  at  moments,  early 
in  that  life,  when  the  envelope  had  responded  to  the 
incitement  of  youthful,  uncalculating  generosities, 
and  later,  in  certain  disinterested  and  careless  out- 
pourings of  ideas  concerning  beauty  in  music — at 
those  moments  the  essential  "  me  "  had  developed  in 
a  swift  blossoming.  The  growth  was  little,  gravely 
little.  But  growth  there  had  been,  despite  the  ap- 
parent froward  conspiracy  against  it. 

I  saw  the  earthly  envelope,  precisely  as  it  must 
have  been  ages  before — on  that  bed  in  Palace  Court 

215 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Mansions,  with  its  violet  gaseous  counterpart  float- 
ing still  above  it.  My  vision  could  not  pursue  it  into 
its  decay  and  dissolution.  My  vision  was  arrested 
at  that  point,  attracted  thenceforward  to  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  the  other  envelope,  more  ethereal  and  ra- 
diant. I  gazed  at  the  earthly  envelope,  not  sadly,  not 
reproachfully.  It  had  served. 

My  second  life,  that  long  dalliance  in  a  brighter 
world  of  color  and  illusion,  seemed  to  me  now  to 
be  even  more  pathetic  than  the  grosser  brief  career 
that  preceded  it.  At  any  rate,  during  the  latter,  no 
part  of  my  consciousness  had  ever  imagined  itself 
to  be  in  a  heaven ;  nor  had  mistaken  its  own  creations 
for  independent  organisms ;  nor  had  drugged  itself 
with  a  conceit  of  its  own  perfection.  I  saw  that  this 
second  life,  with  all  its  relative  fineness,  had  been 
nothing  but  an  exquisite  atonement  for  the  grand 
error  of  the  other.  In  the  first  gross  years  (up  to 
the  moment  when  the  coins  were  put  on  the  eyes  of 
the  heavy  envelope),  instead  of  working  toward 
freedom,  I  had  steadily  thickened  the  radiant  walls 
of  that  prison  of  the  "  me."  Nearly  all  that  elegant 
preoccupation  with  art  and  beauty,  all  that  refining 
upon  refinements,  all  that  fastidious  rejection  of  the 
common  ugly,  had  been  based  in  desire,  tending  to 
isolation  instead  of  to  communion.  The  bright  bar- 

216 


THE   PAST 


riers  that  shut  in  the  "  me  "  had  year  by  year  grown 
more  impervious. 

They  had  had  to  wear  themselves  away  in  the 
fabrication  of  delicious  but  humiliating  illusions. 
And  during  the  ages  of  this  atonement,  the  hour  of 
my  freedom  had  been  delayed,  until  at  last,  amidst 
the  wreck  of  those  real  dreams,  the  shell  broke,  and  I 
was  born. 

Now  I  could  see  the  fragments  of  that  shell  float- 
ing in  the  universe  which  I  had  once  deemed  lumi- 
nous, and  in  its  essence  rapturously  alive.  .  .  .  Dull, 
garish,  slack,  inert!  .  .  .  Strange,  the  formidable 
power  of  self-deception !  The  strangest  thing  of  all 
in  all  that  universe  was  not  that  I  had  accepted  a 
mere  harsh  glitter  as  absolute  beauty,  nor  that  I  had 
amused  myself  so  childishly  with  vain  toys,  but  that 
I  had  remained  so  long  and  so  completely  in  the  con- 
viction that  bliss  could  alone  proceed  from  the  satis- 
faction of  desire. 


All  these  matters  I  perceived  simultaneously  in 
a  single  clear  and  enlightening  flash  of  pure  percep- 
tion, during  one  of  those  periods  of  tremendous  calm, 
when  existence  itself  seemed  to  be  arrested  in  abso- 
lute achievement.  'Then  existence  resumed,  and 

217 


THE   GLIMPSE 


those  visions  of  the  past  faded  back  into  their  true 
unimportance. 

The  least  marvelous  of  the  beings  in  tHat  state 
was  very  marvelous,  and  consciously  so.  There  was 
a  universal  exaltation  in  the  use  of  fine  faculties. 
Degrees,  however,  existed.  I  counted  myself  mid- 
way on  the  ladder  of  degrees.  I  beheld  those  who 
were  certainly  below  me,  considerable  in  number. 
But  also,  I  beheld  those,  considerable,  too,  in  num- 
ber, who  in  responsiveness,  in  elasticity,  in  rapidity 
of  action,  in  the  intense  beauty  of  their  outpouring, 
were  incomparably  my  superiors.  And  there  were, 
apart,  the  greater  intelligences.  I  was  with  the  large 
majority,  I,  who  in  the  double  envelope  of  bodies  had 
masqueraded  as  a  spiritual  aristocrat!  To  think 
that  I  had  failed  to  achieve  a  perfection  which  others 
had  achieved  and  which  might  have  been  mine, 
grieved  me.  Grief  was  there.  Grief  was  in  that 
rapture ;  felt  like  a  recondite  dissonance  in  a  chord  of 
emotion ;  but  pacified  by  the  omnipresent  and  ardent 
sympathy  which  was  the  very  atmosphere. 

And  I  approached  the  nucleus.  Although  at  any 
given  moment  few  were  entering  it,  the  experience 
was  withheld  from  none.  Soon  or  late  each  being 
vanished  into  the  invisible  splendor  of  the  nucleus, 
for  a  space  of  time  long  or  short. 


218 


CHAPTER   XXVIII 

THE   GLIMPSE 

NO  sensation  of  motion  on  my  part.  .  .  .  But  an 
increase  of  light;  till  light  seemed  gradually 
to  become  the  absence  of  light,  the  complete  absence 
of  all  phenomena  whatever.  .  .  .  An  ineffable  so- 
lemnity inspired  me,  and  a  sublime  apprehension,  in 
the  nature  of  fear,  but  greater  than  fear.  .  .  .  Dis- 
appearance of  the  last  of  those  perfect  companions. 
.  .  .  Loneliness,  and  a  torrent  rushing  under  me. 
...  A  consciousness  of  the  divine  brooding  whicK 
is  without  and  beyond  form.  .  .  .  The  supreme  ad- 
venture ! 

And  then  a  cognition,  startling,  reassuring,  that 
this  was  not  happening  to  me  for  the  first  time,  that 
I  was  no  stranger  in  that  solemnity,  but  a  visitant 
since  everlasting. 

And  in  the  ecstatic  void  the  vision  of  the  whole 
cycle  of  my  existence  began  to  be  revealed  to  me, 
rolling  itself  backward  into  the  unguessed  deeps  of 
the  past,  so  that  I  might  learn.  I  saw  the  endless 
series  of  my  lives,  recurring  and  recurring  in  se- 
15  219 


THE   GLIMPSE 


quences  of  three — the  imprisonment  in  the  double 
envelope,  the  partial  freedom  of  the  single  radiant 
envelope,  and  the  freedom.  The  last  an  ageless  real- 
ization, the  second  a  long  purgation,  the  first  an 
ordeal  brief,  but  full  of  fate! 

My  perception  was  not  now  abruptly  balked  at  the 
birth  of  the  human  soul  known  on  the  earth  as  Mor- 
rice  Loring.  I  descried  that  out  of  which  Morrice 
Loring  came.  I  saw,  amidst  the  recurring  epochs, 
incarnations  far  other  than  his.  Morrice  Loring  was 
no  more  to  me  than  uncounted  other  envelopes  of 
flesh.  I  ceased  to  be  Morrice  Loring  and  became  a 
legion.  These  lives  flashed  up  before  me  one  an- 
terior to  another,  mere  moments  between  the  vast 
periods  that  separated  them.  They  twinkled  and 
were  gone,  like  shooting  stars  in  the  spirituality  of 
the  night.  But,  in  the  perfection  of  my  faculties,  I 
beheld  them  in  detail  as,  before,  I  had  beheld  the  one 
life.  I  could  distinguish  the  hairs  on  the  rough  chest 
of  a  camel,  the  colors  of  the  iridescence  of  ice,  the 
glint  of  a  sun  on  a  piece  of  stuff,  the  gradations 
in  the  pupil  of  the  eye  of  a  young  girl.  I  could  trace 
the  fall  and  rise  to  and  from  an  explosion  of  wrath, 
the  slow  birth  of  a  wish,  and  the  spark  of  an  intui- 
tion, the  sudden  resolve  of  renunciations,  the  lightest 
influence  of  an  induced  mood.  And  one  life  was 
not  clearer  to  me  than  another.  And  one  life  was 

220 


THE    GLIMPSE 


not  more  important  to  me  than  another.  All  were 
equally  indispensable  and  disciplinal.  The  variety 
of  those  imprisonments  seemed  endless.  Some  were 
fevers  of  desire ;  others  had  almost  the  calmness  of 
a  final  wisdom.  Some  were  cruel ;  some  were  kind. 
In  some  the  double  barriers  were  so  thin  that  the 
immortal  prisoner  shone  through  them;  and  men 
wondered.  And  in  the  next  the  walls  might  be 
hopelessly  thick  again.  .  .  .  Undulations  in  the 
curve  of  evolution.  .  .  . 

But  as  the  remoter  past  swam  toward  me  in  the 
vision,  the  development  of  that  prisoner  which  was 
I  showed  unmistakable.  He  had  seemed  to  be  help- 
lessly isolated  in  the  prison  named  Morrice  Loring, 
but  in  the  light  of  comparison  it  was  not  so.  Far 
back  in  the  chain  his  captivity  had  far  more  closely 
resembled  death,  and  his  powers  had  far  more  closely 
resembled  utter  impotence.  I  could  see  him  held  fast 
in  the  grossness  of  bodies  whose  crude  savagery 
would  have  shocked  Morrice  Loring  into  inanition. 
I  could  see  him  borne  within  organisms  of  astound- 
ing coarseness  that  fought  naked  amidst  primitive 
dangers  to  preserve  the  horror  of  their  lives. 

Astounding,  did  I  say?  Primitive?  »  .  .  All  this 
was  naught.  All  this  was  not  even  the  beginning 
of  astonishment  nor  the  end  of  the  prime.  Still 
further  in  the  past,  I  saw  that  divine  prisoner  within 

221 


THE   GLIMPSE 


the  forms  of  roaming  and  solitary  animals,  in  out- 
rageous landscapes  where  there  was  no  man,  at  ati 
epoch  when  man  existed  only  in  the  creative  thought. 
And  the  forms  of  those  animals  waxed  and  waned 
in  size,  and  waned  and  waxed,  now  leviathan,  now 
trivial;  and  becoming  ever  stranger  and  stranger. 
And  still  at  each  dissolution  of  the  prison  a  radiant 
envelope  escaped,  and  the  prisoner  escaped  from  the 
radiance  into  the  uncolored  light,  and  ultimately 
gazed  amidst  an  invisible  splendor,  as  now  he  gazed 
at  the  spectacle  of  his  evolution,  to  gather  the  harvest 
of  experience. 

And  I  saw  that  once,  by  some  apparent  hazard, 
he  was  flung  back  into  the  identical  prison  from 
which  he  had  been  set  free,  the  envelope  waiting  in 
suspension  to  receive  the  disconcerted  prisoner.  And 
this  accident  occurred  more  than  once. 

I  hurried  flying  through  the  vision  of  eternal  time, 
driven  by  the  divine  curiosity  to  learn  the  origin 
of  these  ceaseless  mutations,  to  arrive  at  the  first  of 
them  and  know  the  absolute  fount  from  which  I  had 
sprung.  I  sought  also  to  gaze  forward  into  the 
future ;  for  I  knew  that  when  I  should  have  assimi- 
lated the  latest  of  my  experience  I  must  enter  an- 
other prison,  and  I  hoped  that  I  might  discern  it, 
even  if  dimly.  But  no !  This  faculty  was  not  mine. 
And  so  I  pressed  backward. 

222 


THE   GLIMPSE 


And  even  all  this  was  naught  to  that  which,  lying 
farther  behind,  rolled  later  into  my  view.  In  the 
twinkling  of  recurrent  incarnations,  a  point  came 
when  the  immortal  prisoner,  subdivided,  was  in- 
closed in  many  prisons  simultaneously,  instead  of  in 
one.  Flying  organisms.  .  .  .  Not  birds.  .  .  .  Flocks 
that  winged  clumsily  over  an  earth  desolate  and 
seemingly  lifeless,  but  for  them.  Congregations  of 
bodies  bound  by  a  collective  will  that  dominated, 
though  not  completely,  the  separate  parts.  .  .  .  Play 
of  dull  yet  powerful  instincts  exercising  themselves 
in  large,  confused,  and  concerted  activities!  .  .  . 
And  as  the  incarnations  passed  before  me,  each  dis- 
closing an  earlier  one,  the  division  of  the  prisoner 
grew  more  and  more  minute,  and  the  multitudinous 
organisms  more  and  more  simple,  homogeneous, 
and  less  and  less  intelligent.  .  .  .  Until  at  length 
I  was  scattered  for  instants  incredibly  brief,  shed 
abroad  and  yet  indivisible,  among  myriads  of  al- 
most exactly  similar  organisms  that  performed  one 
act  and  died  fulfilled.  And  the  incarnations  fol- 
lowed in  a  sequence  of  accelerating  speed. 

The  globe  upon  which  they  groped  was  liquid, 
with  here  and  there  portions  congealing.  And  my 
prisons  innumerable  could  only  exist  in  the  intense 
heat  which  it  exhaled.  And  this  heat  grew  fiercer. 
.  .  .  And  in  the  past  of  still  remoter  incarnations  the 

223 


THE   GLIMPSE 


globe  was  a  sphere  of  wreathing  gases,  white,  but 
with  a  gross  whiteness.  And  the  incarnations  were 
still  swifter.  And  the  gaseous  sphere  wreathed 
larger,  spinning  amorphous,  the  abode  of  transient 
life-manifestations  of  which  I  alone  gave  force  to 
millions.  .  .  .  The  dizzy  vision  stirred  me  as  I 
watched  it  into  a  profound  agitation.  I  thought:  I 
am  surely  approaching  the  origin  and  fount  of  un- 
created perfection  from  which  I  sprang. 

Then  a  cataclysm :  a  cosmic  collision  and  disaster. 
And,  perceiving  the  phenomena  in  the  inverse  order 
of  their  occurrence,  I  saw  two  worlds  receding  ter- 
rifically from  one  another,  stone-cold  and  rigid  as 
stone. 

And  myself,  no  more  dispersed,  but  more  than  ever 
rigorously  captive,  voyaging  on  the  larger  of  them! 

The  incarnations  now  were  comparatively  very 
long.  And  there  might  have  seemed  to  be  no  symp- 
tom of  activity  either  in  the  prisoner  or  in  his  prison- 
ing envelopes.  The  world  might  have  been  locked 
in  an  unthinkable  death.  But  it  was  not.  It  had 
only  been  approaching  the  impossible,  and  I  watched 
it,  in  my  vision,  back  toward  life.  I,  as  I  saw  my- 
self, had  at  that  stage  sunk  into  a  kind  of  stupor ;  I 
resembled  a  seed  in  winter.  I  bore  within  me  all 
the  past  and  all  the  future,  but  naught  moved.  And 
I  watched  myself,  through  again  innumerable  in- 

224 


THE   GLIMPSE 


carnations,  farther  through  the  recesses  of  the  past, 
back  into  an  intense  and  complex  activity  surpassing 
my  highest  condition  previous  to  the  cataclysm,  and 
of  an  entirely  different  order  from  it.  And  in  a  rapid 
stream  of  twinkling  incarnations,  I  retraced  a 
strange  succession  of  civilizations  from  their  decline 
to  their  glory,  and  from  their  glory  to  their  birth, 
on  and  on  to  an  apogee  of  achievement. 

And  here,  though  that  past  was  more  distant  than 
the  faintest  speck  of  star  left  behind  in  the  lightning 
rush  of  systems  through  millions  of  aeons,  I  could  see 
it  all  to  the  minutest  detail  in  my  vision.  .  .  .  Other 
beings !  Another  race  of  beings !  Other  landscapes ! 
But  the  same  laws!  And  the  same  supreme  law! 
I  could  still  follow  a  wish  to  its  birth.  I  could  still 
observe  the  ravages  of  desire !  If  my  prisons  were 
metamorphosed,  I  was  still  individually  I,  yet  pos- 
sessing attributes  which  I  had  since  lost  or  which . 
had  since  folded  themselves  within  me  in  dormancy. 
Then  the  curve  of  evolution,  always  undulating,  de- 
scended once  more,  and  that  world,  too,  shot  on- 
ward into  the  past  toward  its  sudden  birth  in  the 
heat  of  starry  collision.  And  again  I  saw  two  frigid 
spheres  rushing  into  separation. 

And  I  was  still  individual. 

And    thence    backward  the   birth  and   death   of 
worlds  twinkled  in  a  sequence  as  rapid  and  as  clear 

225 


THE    GLIMPSE 


as  the  sequence  of  my  own  incarnations  had  been. 
And  I  could  follow  the  vast  arching  of  the  curve 
of  evolution.  And  that  curve,  immense  as  it  was, 
dwindled  to  be  one  of  countless  undulations  in  an 
infinitely  mightier  curve  that  gradually  began  to 
shape  itself  to  my  watching  and  awed  sight.  And 
I  saw  myself,  diviner,  rising  on  the  great  curve 
whose  foot  and  whose  summit  were  alike  invisible, 
toward  the  ultimate  beginning.  And  I  would  thrill 
in  passionate  anticipation  of  the  revealing  vision  to 
come.  .  .  .  Then  the  summit  of  the  curve  would 
emerge  clear,  and  it  would  bend  downward — with- 
out having  attained.  .  .  .  To  soar  again!  I  could 
see  that  the  modifications  in  me  were  profound  and 
tremendous,  under  the  eternal  ordeal  of  desire  and 
its  purgation.  But  modifications  of  what?  Point- 
ing to  what?  .  .  .  Why  .  .  .  ? 

Then  I  noticed  that  the  shocks  which  marked  the 
birth  and  the  death  of  universes  grew  less  violent, 
and  their  results  less  positive.  The  succeeding  days 
of  civilization  and  nights  of  black  and  icy  stupor 
were  not  so  sharply  divided  each  from  each.  The 
wavy  course  of  time  was  tranquilized  into  a 
smoother  path.  And  my  incarnations  were  less  im- 
prisoning. The  transitions  from  the  state  of  free- 
dom to  the  radiant  envelope,  and  from  the  radiant 
envelope  to  the  grosser  body — especially  the  latter — 

226 


THE   GLIMPSE 


were  less  abrupt  and  less  clearly  differentiated. 
There  came  an  epoch  when  I  never,  during  the  com- 
plete cycle  of  an  incarnation,  entirely  lost  the  con- 
sciousness of  my  real,  central  self,  when  that  self 
never  ceased  knowingly  and  effectively  to  react 
upon  its  envelopes.  .  .  . 

The  curve  was  now  mounting  upward,  and  at  an 
angle  bolder  than  any  before.  And  in  its  flight  the 
curve  undulated  far  less  than  it  had  ever  done. 

And  on  the  lower  physical  plane  there  was  noth- 
ing solid.  Matter  remained  fluid.  And  living  or- 
ganisms had  a  fluidity  that  was  nearer  the  gaseous 
than  the  liquid.  And  the  movement  of  these  organ- 
isms was  beautiful  in  its  yielding  and  swift  plastic- 
ity, resembling  the  activity  of  the  radiant  plane. 
And  universes  intermingled  in  their  vague  orbits, 
mutually  unharming.  And  the  varieties  of  the  phe- 
nomena decreased  in  number,  and  there  proceeded 
a  great  and  comprehensive  simplification. 

And  then  the  disappearance  of  liquid  matter  fol- 
lowed the  disappearance  of  solid.  And  the  elements 
resolved  into  one  another,  lightening;  and  the  va- 
rieties of  phenomena  still  decreased.  And  even  the 
lower  physical  plane  acquired  radiance,  until  its 
highest  intensity  approached  the  lowest  intensity  of 
the  radiant  plane,  and  for  brief  instants  the  two 
might  be  indistinguishable. 

227 


THE    GLIMPSE 


I  shook,  watching  the  vision.  For  I  now  saw 
myself  indubitably  reaching  back  to  my  far  fount 
and  origin.  I  saw  in  myself  the  awaking  out  of 
quiescence  of  wondrous  qualities,  and  still  more 
wondrous.  I  saw  in  myself  a  creature  nearer  a  di- 
vine absolute  than  even  the  great  intelligences  whose 
presence  I  felt  around  me  in  the  nucleus. 

And  my  incarnations  were  no  longer  imprison- 
ments, but  gentle  and  soft  veilings  in  transient  clouds 
of  desire;  little  intervals  of  illusion  out  of  which  I 
emerged  as  from  a  waking  dream.  That  terrible 
perverse  impulse  toward  separation,  that  impulse 
which  had  so  fatally  vitiated  the  careers  of  Morrice 
Loring  and  of  his  predecessors  backward  through 
eternities  of  past,  was  scarcely  felt  now — a  mere 
faint,  fleeting  tendency  to  draw  away,  vanquished 
in  an  instant  by  the  mighty  original  force  of  co- 
hesion. 

The  universes  of  the  lower  plane  became  one,  and 
cataclysms  and  transitions,  and  even  movement 
ceased.  Nothing  but  a  uniform  vibration  marked 
the  life  of  the  plane.  The  elements,  further  resolving 
into  one  another,  had  become  one  element.  Light 
grew,  and,  in  the  growth  of  light,  the  weight  of 
grossness  faded.  The  unique  gaseous  element  spent 
itself  in  a  continuous  and  ardent  expansion.  It  had 
no  longer  the  materiality  of  gas.  ...  It  escaped 

228 


THE   GLIMPSE 


from  the  dominion  of  its  own  perceptiveness,  and 
was  lost  in  the  plane  of  the  radiant. 

It  was  the  birth  of  matter  that  I  had  been  watch- 
ing. 

The  curve  of  evolution  shot  still  more  boldly  up- 
ward. 

And  in  the  radiant  plane  I  witnessed  myself  easily 
purging  away  the  trivial  illusions  of  what  had  been 
the  first  of  all  my  incarnations — illusions  removed 
scarce  appreciably  from  absolute  reality.  Then  came 
the  first  incarnation — a  reverie — and  then  I  was  in 
the  radiant  plane  again,  where  the  activity  of  desire 
was  yet  unknown.  And  then  the  iridescences,  the 
chromatic  complexities  of  the  radiant  plane  began 
to  simplify  themselves  in  a  growing  brightness.  And 
the  buoyant  atmosphere  of  that  plane,  compared  to 
which  the  ether  of  gross  physical  conceptions  is 
heavy  and  rigid  as  metal — this  atmosphere  in  its  turn 
expanded  toward  its  still  less  material  source.  And 
its  colors  died  in  the  dazzling  luminance  of  original 
light.  Yet  a  little,  and  my  vision  had  reached  a 
moment  before  even  the  radiant  plane  had  begun  to 
exist.  .  .  . 

And  the  spirit  had  no  home  but  its  fellow-spirit. 

We  communed,  equal  in  the  first  freshness  of  our 
origin.  And  our  communion  was  far  completer  than 
that  between  the  most  advanced  of  the  companions 

229 


THE   GLIMPSE 


whom  I  had  quitted  in  order  to  enter  into  the 
nucleus.  And  our  joy  more  intense! 

The  vision  overpowered  me.  I  saw  myself  in  the 
very  dawn  of  the  divine.  The  communion  of  those 
unnamable  creatures  thrilled  into  a  true  coales- 
cence, and  surpassed  it.  And  the  being  that  was 
myself  gazed  with  unclouded  eye  at  the  source  of 
light  and  awe,  gazing  within.  And  with  a  sigh  of 
supreme  transport  I  began  to  yield  up  my  melting 
individuality  in  exchange  for  the  final  self-knowl- 
edge in  which  resides  the  clew  to  the  enigma.  .  .  . 
I  throbbed  to  the  prime  pulsations  of  timeless  ex- 
istence. ...  I  saw  ...  I  became  .  .  . 

The  pulsations  resolved  themselves,  with  mysteri- 
ous and  formidable  portent,  into  the  vast  reiterated 
summoning  of  a  titantic  gong  that  announced  the 
unimagined.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER    XXIX 

ACCIDENT 

EXTRAORDINARILY  skilled  and  efficient 
though  my  senses  were,  I  at  first  thought  that 
the  reverberations  of  that  unseen  gong  were  a  part 
of  the  vision  which  was  passing  before  me;  and  I 
was  mistaken.  The  mere  perception  of  my  error 
shook  me.  I  trembled  with  forebodings,  and  I  was 
distracted  from  the  vision.  The  vision  sank  away 
from  my  sight — or  perhaps  my  faculties  were  now 
unable  to  hold  it.  I  was  alone  in  the  tremendous 
calm  of  the  nucleus.  And  under  the  persistent  toll- 
ing I  began  to  retrace  the  past — actually  to  re- 
trace it.  I  had  followed  the  past  up  to  its  source, 
in  my  marvelous  and  revealing  vision.  But  that 
pursuit  had  been  a  vision,  and  for  a  vision  I  posi- 
tively knew  it.  But  now  I  was  myself,  in  reality 
traveling  backward  through  the  moments — the 
years,  the  ages,  perhaps — that  I  had  spent  in  the 
nucleus.  And  this  happened  against  my  wish, 
against  my  command,  against  my  instincts.  I  tried 

231 


THE   GLIMPSE 


passionately  to  arrest  my  course — the  whole  secret 
force  of  my  being  yearned  toward  the  vision  whose 
ineffable  climax  had  been  snatched  from  me — but 
I  was  powerless. 

The  gong  grew  louder;  and  it  grew  into  a  horri- 
ble torture.  It  seemed  to  be  ripping  harshly 
through  the  delicate  veils  that  separate  that  which 
the  eye  may  view  from  that  which  is  too  vile  for 
sight.  Veil  after  veil  it  seemed  to  tear  asunder, 
growing  still  louder.  And  then  I  made  the  dis- 
covery, which  debased  the  just  pride  in  me,  that 
the  strident  sound  of  the  gong  was  not  in  the  plane 
of  the  nucleus.  It  came  from  elsewhere.  It  was 
invading  the  forbidden  and  immaculate  solemnity 
of  the  nucleus;  sacrilegiously;  with  an  arrogant 
summons  for  me.  And  I  was  afraid,  dropping 
the  incomparable  dignity  which  clothes  those  who 
enter  the  nucleus,  dropping  my  self-respect,  and 
yielding  openly  to  fear.  I  struggled  hysterically 
with  the  influence  that  was  pushing  me  backward 
through  my  own  history,  and  reached  out  desper- 
ately to  the  faded  vision.  Futile!  I  myself,  under 
the  sinister  iteration  of  the  gong,  felt  like  an  unholy 
trespasser  in  the  invisible  splendor  that  surrounded 
me.  .  .  . 

The  invisible  deteriorated  into  the  visible.  I 
emerged  on  the  confines  of  the  nucleus.  Greater 

232 


ACCIDENT 


intelligences  loomed  indistinct  in  their  own  efflu- 
ence. They  watched  me.  They  saw  my  plight. 
They  must  have  known  that  I  was  the  victim  of  an 
obscene  intrusion,  that  every  law  had  been  chal- 
lenged by  the  power  which  was  seducing  me  away. 
In  the  effort  to  obtain  their  sympathy  I  seemed  to 
consume  all  my  vitality.  But  they  made  no  sign. 
And  I  was  swept  on,  the  gong  still  clanging  its 
menace,  and  now  I  saw  the  nucleus  from  without, 
as  the  indiscernible  core  of  the  pure  intensity  of 
light  that  was  the  atmosphere  of  the  plane  in  which 
I  had  found  freedom.  The  entities  who  also  had 
achieved  that  plane  were  living  still  their  shining 
existence  of  emotion  and  reason  wrought  together 
in  an  exquisite  responsiveness.  This  was  my  nat- 
ural home.  Mine  was  the  right  to  remain  there  for 
ages  yet.  But  I  was  hurried  on,  passing  inversely 
through  all  the  sensations  which  I  had  experienced 
there,  tasting  bliss  in  torment.  And  to  these  com- 
panions, too,  I  offered  the  tragic  plaintiveness  of 
my  appeal  for  aid;  but  none  answered.  And  under 
the  enchantment  of  the  gong,  I  surged  helpless 
along,  clutching,  fighting.  And  at  length  the 
strokes  of  the  gong  sounded  fainter,  and  still 
fainter.  I  was  reentering  the  sleep  from  which  I 
had  awakened  into  freedom,  awakened  into  birth. 
Life  left  me.  But  in  the  pre-natal  state  I  could 

233 


THE   GLIMPSE 


hear  the  muffled,  obstinate,  destructive  summons  of 
the  gong. 

The  prismatic  and  airy  fluid  of  the  radiant  plane 
was  vibrating  about  me  when  I  became  conscious 
again.  And  the  gong  was  relentlessly  striking  its 
note  that  jarred  through  me  and  through  the  at- 
mosphere. It  was  not  yet  satisfied.  It  still  dragged 
me  implacably  on.  It  was  still  rending  the  veils 
that  should  not  be  rent.  And  as  it  had  been  for- 
eign to  the  plane  beyond,  so  also  was  it  foreign  to 
the  radiant  plane.  I  had  followed  its  mandate,  but 
it  still  came  from  elsewhere,  uncanny,  and  horribly 
discordant. 

The  medium  in  which  I  moved  seemed  to  me 
just  as  beautiful  as  when  I  had  quitted  it.  ...  That 
was  part  of  the  tragedy.  ...  I  had  no  sensation 
of  being  imprisoned  in  something  heavier,  duller, 
less  responsive  than  myself.  .  .  .  That,  too,  was 
part  of  the  tragedy.  My  consciousness  was  trans- 
ferred to  the  thin,  worn  shells  of  radiant  matter 
that  enveloped  the  true  entity  which  had  returned 
from  beyond.  These  shells  were  the  only  conscious 
"  me."  My  memory  of  the  divine  birth  and  the 
divine  adventure  and  the  glimpse  was  already 
dimmed  and  tarnished.  But  it  nevertheless  re- 
mained in  my  consciousness,  and  by  it — not  by  di- 

234 


ACCIDENT 


rect  perception — I  knew  that  the  authentic  and 
eternal  "  me  "  was  a  fast  and  silent  prisoner  within 
the  external  shells  of  consciousness.  I  no  longer 
struggled  backward  toward  that  from  which  I  had 
been  dragged.  I  was  deeply  aware  of  the  hopeless- 
ness of  such  a  struggle.  But  I  did  fight  to  remain 
where  I  was,  in  the  moment  of  pulsating  calm,  the 
moment  of  the  extinction  of  desire  and  illusion. 

I  could  not.  The  gong  crashed  through  the 
mystic  chromatic  barriers  and  found  me. 

And  at  a  dizzy  speed  I,  unwilling  and  fiercely 
protesting,  raced  back  over  my  own  footsteps  in  the 
great  field  of  time.  An  age  was  as  an  instant; 
eternities  were  as  an  instant.  The  shells  of  the  liv- 
ing prison  grew.  She  appeared.  The  beautiful 
landscapes  appeared.  The  gardens  appeared,  and 
the  palace.  And  the  music  tinkled  from  an  elfin 
echo  into  the  full  resonance  of  sublime  art.  The 
recumbent  figures  in  the  gardens  arose  and  spoke 
once  more  with  their  refined  and  charming  voices. 
The  amazing  books  re-peopled  the  shelves  of  the 
gleaming  palace.  .  .  .  And  my  memory,  though 
languishing,  said  to  me:  "All  these  are  tawdry 
playthings."  And  I  knew  that  they  were,  while  en- 
joying them.  In  the  periods  of  reverie  I  knew 
this.  But  I  had  to  retrace,  and  I  did  retrace,  all 
the  doubts,  hesitations,  and  counterfeit  delights 
16  235 


THE  GLIMPSE 


through  which  I  had  passed  on  my  way  to  my  free- 
dom. I  yielded  to  illusion,  aware  of  its  illusiveness. 

All  that  came  and  was  gone.  Those  heavens 
shot  away  beneath  my  furious  flight;  vanished  into 
the  future,  while  I  faced  the  past.  My  idyll  with 
the  perfect  woman  of  my  desire's  creation  was  re- 
sumed from  end  to  beginning  in  a  flash.  All  her 
lovely  attitudes,  surrenders,  acquiescences,  discre- 
tions, audacities  were  folded  into  a  moment.  From 
the  woman  she  returned  into  the  girl,  and  the  act 
that  made  her  was  undone,  and  she  was  not.  And 
I  was  utterly  alone  again  in  the  vibrant  and  irides- 
cent air,  watching  the  changing  colors  of  it,  and  the 
gorgeousness  of  my  own  envelope,  in  a  na'ive  won- 
der. And  my  memory  said  to  me:  "  This  is  garish. 
This  is  naught.  This  is  death."  And  I  said:  "  If 
only  I  could  remain  here,  where  I  am!  " 

The  gong  still  boomed  its  call,  but  louder. 

A  stupor  slowly  grasped  me  in  its  drowsy,  cling- 
ing arms.  I  fought  to  loosen  myself,  for  I  was 
thrilled  with  horror  at  the  apprehension  of  what 
awaited  me  if  I  could  not  resist.  In  vain!  .  .  All 
phenomena  faded  save  the  inexorable  uproar  of  the 
gong. 

Then  roused  by  something  offensive  and  intrin- 
sive,  I  perceived,  monstrously,  a  pyramidal  summit 

236 


ACCIDENT 


sticking  up  out  of  vacancy  into  the  radiant  air.  I 
stared  at  it,  dazed,  puzzled,  searching  in  memory  for 
the  answer  to  its  conundrum.  It  was  not  strange 
to  me.  It  was  disconcertingly  familiar.  I  fancied 
that  the  clangor  of  the  gong  came  from  it,  but  it 
was  not  the  home  of  the  gong,  though  now  the 
sound  was  deafeningly  near.  The  pyramid  was 
tinted  in  multifarious  dead  opaque  colors — earthly 
colors — a  travesty  of  the  rainbow,  as  the  rainbow 
would  have  been  a  travesty  of  hues  of  that  gleam- 
ing atmosphere.  Impossible  to  imagine  aught 
more  utterly  revolting  than  the  harsh,  dark  wound 
made  by  the  pyramid  in  ethereal  translucency.  I 
stared  at  it,  full  of  a  terrible  leisure,  and  still 
haunted  by  the  clamor  of  the  summons.  I  was 
not  flying  backward  now.  The  reversal  of  time 
had  ceased  to  operate,  and  the  moments  as  they 
passed  were  no  longer  contrary  to  me.  And  im- 
perceptibly the  recognition  of  the  pyramid  per- 
meated my  affrighted  consciousness  like  a  disease. 
It  was  the  upper  portion  of  the  Albert  Memorial, 
an  immoderate  unsightliness  which  even  in  the 
most  squalid  hours  of  the  earthliest  Morrice  Lor- 
ing  I  would  always  take  every  possible  measure  to 
avoid. 

And  I  saw  momentarily  troops  of  the  radiant 
floating  by.     They  were  departing.     I,  by  reason 

237 


THE   GLIMPSE 


of  some  accidental  propensity  in  my  original  be- 
ing, had  escaped  too  soon  and  was  returning.  Not 
for  the  first  time — according  to  that  revealing  vi- 
sion of  mine  yonder,  was  this  casualty  occurring  to 
me! 

Then  I  saw  the  sun — your  sun,  looming  somber 
like  a  dead  star  in  my  radiance.  Then  the  lower 
plane  supervened,  shutting  off  the  radiance,  and  I 
saw  the  faint  roofs  of  houses,  with  thousands  of 
ghostly  tin  cowls  gibbering  crooked  and  bent  on 
their  chimneys.  And  in  a  canyon  between  two 
precipices  of  houses  I  saw  two  streams  of  people 
wending  in  opposite  directions,  doll-like,  afar  off 
and  beneath  me.  Knightsbridge,  Parkside,  Picca- 
dilly. .  .  .  The  effect  was  exceedingly  bizarre,  for 
the  gross  body  of  every  one  of  these  dolls  was 
illuminated  by  the  radiant  body,  scintillant  and 
prismatic.  And  though  the  sun  shed  its  brightness 
of  a  summer  morning  the  light  of  the  sun  was  as 
darkness  to  the  refulgence  of  these  dolls.  The  spec- 
tacle resembled  a  procession  of  torches  moving 
of  their  volition  amidst  dim  architectures.  .  .  . 
Strange,  that  those  vivid  envelopes  should  excite 
no  wonder!  .  .  .  Incredible  blindness! 

I  knew  now  the  significance  of  the  gong.  And  I 
passionately  denied  it.  "No!"  I  protested  in  a 
fever  of  refusal,  "  I  will  not  go.  Nothing  shall 

238 


ACCIDENT 


force  me  to  go.  I  will  wander  here  forever  rather 
than  go.  It  is  against  all  nature  that  I  should  go." 

But  I  went,  slowly,  surely,  gnashing  out  my  re- 
luctance. ...  I  went.  .  .  . 

I  was  in  my  study,  quivering  near  the  window. 
The  gong  ceased. 

I  said  to  myself,  without  surprise:  "That  clock 
has  struck  eleven!"  I  knew  that  the  clock  had 
struck  eleven.  During  all  the  ages  of  my  descent 
from  the  crisis  of  the  unfinished  revealing  vision, 
the  clock  in  the  vestibule  had  struck  eleven.  In 
the  background  of  my  exasperated  consciousness, 
I  could  hear  it  ticking.  But  I  would  not  listen  to 
it  ticking.  I  could  not.  I  could  not  regard  with 
curiosity  even  the  familiarities  of  my  study.  For 
the  whole  of  my  faculties  were  instantly  monopo- 
lized. 

It  still  lay  there — it.  And  the  door  showing  the 
bed  in  the  bedchamber  was  still  open.  It  still  lay 
there,  with  the  penny  on  one  eye  and  the  half- 
crown  on  the  other,  and  the  handkerchief  support- 
ing the  flaccid  jaw.  .  .  .  Obscene!  Not  meant  to 
be  looked  upon!  But  I  could  look  upon  nothing 
else. 

"  Never!  "  I  seemed  to  cry,  fainting  in  a  fearful 
nausea.  "  Never!  " 

Putrescent  clay!  Rigid,  blighting  prison!  Grave 
239 


THE   GLIMPSE 


of  all  the  finer  perceptions!  Extinguisher  of 
light! 

Abhorrent  basilisk,  drawing  me — drawing  me, 
by  a  hypnotism  a  thousandfold  more  odious  than 
that  of  the  eye!  ...  Drawing  me!  ... 

A  noise  in  my  muffled  ears.  Noise  of  a  coin 
rolling  slowly  and  interminably  along  a  polished 
floor  circling^  and  then  flopping  to  rest  on  its  side. 


BOOK   III 


CHAPTER   XXX 

RETURN 

I  WAS  alone  in  the  bedroom.  And  I  was  glad  to 
find  myself  alone.  For  I  felt  self-conscious,  I 
felt  almost  ashamed,  of  my  return.  I  had  been 
dead;  I  had  received  the  treatment  accorded  to  the 
dead.  My  co-dwellers  in  the  flat  had  adjusted  their 
minds  to  the  fact  that  I  was  dead.  Shame  is  a 
word  too  strong  for  the  description  of  my  state. 
But  I  was  aware  that  I  had  created  an  exceedingly 
awkward  situation,  which  would  involve  much  so- 
cial discomposure.  Hence  solitude  was  grateful  to 
me.  I  said  to  myself:  "  But,  of  course,  a  corpse  is 
left  alone."  The  sinister  idea  that  I  might,  on  my 
return,  have  opened  my  eyes  in  a  place  quite  other 
than  this  bedroom,  might  have  vainly  struggled 
against  unyielding  wood,  utter  darkness,  and  sub- 
terranean silence — this  idea  did  not  even  occur  to 
me  until  hours  later. 

But  scarcely  had  the  coin  ceased  to  roll  on  the 
polished  floor  when  I  heard  noises  in  the  bath- 

241 


THE   GLIMPSE 


room.  The  door  leading  to  the  bathroom  was  at 
the  other  end  of  the  bedroom  from  my  bed,  and  on 
the  same  wall  as  the  head  of  the  bed.  So  that,  as 
I  lay,  I  could  not  see  that  door  without  turning  on 
my  side  and  twisting  slightly.  I  knew,  however, 
that  it  must  be  open.  Then  I  heard  footsteps, 
quick,  hesitating,  irregular.  Then  silence,  and 
then  a  recommencement  of  the  footsteps.  Inez! 
.  .  .  She  was  in  the  room.  She  was  looking  at 
me  from  my  right,  at  a  distance  of  about  sixteen 
feet.  I  felt  her  presence.  My  eyes  were  open,  but 
I  did  not  move.  Yet  it  seemed  to  me  that  I  was 
capable  of  the  effort  of  such  a  movement  of  the 
head  as  would  have  brought  her  within  my  field 
of  vision.  There  was  a  conflict  of  volitions  within 
me.  I  wished  to  meet  her  eyes,  and  I  feared  to 
meet  her  eyes.  So  I  lay  inert,  but  unmistakably 
blinking  at  the  ceiling.  I  could  hear  her  respira- 
tion. She  came,  stumbling,  nearer  to  me.  She 
passed  round  the  foot  of  her  own  bed,  seized  it 
with  one  hand;  and  we  looked  at  each  other.  I  said 
to  myself:  "  This  is  a  very  trying  moment  for  both 
of  us."  Her  appearance  startled  me.  She  wore  a 
plain  morning  dress,  nearly  new,  and  it  had  been 
put  on  with  fastidious  care,  but  on  the  front  of  the 
corsage  was  a  large  fresh  yellow  stain.  Her  hair 
was  disordered.  Her  features  seemed  to  have  been 

242 


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modified  less  by  grief  than  by  acute  anxiety.  And, 
now,  she  seemed  to  be  less  astonished  than  caught 
— caught  in  some  secret  act.  Her  lips  were  ex- 
traordinarily swollen,  and  vermilion  red  even  to 
rawness. 

Her  mouth  formed  to  speak:  but  she  said  noth- 
ing. She  was  about  to  laugh,  she  was  about  to 
cry;  but  she  did  neither.  I  felt  poignantly  sorry 
for  her.  But  I  could  not  show  my  pity;  could  not 
smile  nor  speak!  I  was  held  back  from  doing  so 
by  some  deep  instinct  of  restraint.  Her  eyes  wan- 
dered, and  stopped  at  a  particular  point  on  the 
floor.  I  knew  that  she  was  looking  at  the  fallen 
coin.  Suddenly  she  swooped  down  on  the  coin, 
came  to  her  knees,  lay  nearly  flat,  and  clumsily 
arose  again,  the  coin  in  her  hand.  She  seemed 
ready  to  faint.  I  wanted  to  advise  her  calmly  to 
be  as  calm  as  she  possibly  could.  But  I  could  not 
persuade  myself  to  speak. 

Then  with  another  sudden  hysteric  movement, 
she  plunged  toward  my  bed,  and  knelt  down — or 
dropped  to  her  knees — at  my  side.  I  did  not  move. 
The  other  coin  had  lodged  in  a  fold  between  the 
pillow  and  the  sheet.  She  snatched  at  it.  The  two 
coins  clinked  together  in  her  hand.  She  half  raised 
herself,  clutching  at  the  bed,  and  began  fumbling 
round  my  head  with  her  hands;  owing  to  the  coins 

243 


THE   GLIMPSE 


she  could  only  use  finger  and  thumb  of  her  right 
hand.  I  wondered  what  she  was  doing,  but  I  did 
not  stir  nor  protest,  though  I  was  very  sensitive  to 
contacts  and  hated  to  be  handled — for  example  by 
a  barber.  Then  I  understood.  She  was  untying 
the  handkerchief  which  she  had  knotted  round  the 
jaw  of  her  dead  husband  to  keep  it  from  falling. 
She  drew  it  away  at  last,  and  seemed  to  try  to  hide 
it  behind  her. 

"  I  put  this  round  your  head  because  I  thought 
you  might  be  cold,"  she  said,  in  a  peculiar  voice, 
the  voice,  I  should  have  supposed,  of  a  person  in 
severe  physical  pain. 

Naturally  she  desired  to  conceal  from  me  that 
she  had  taken  me  for  dead.  It  was  a  feeble  at- 
tempt at  deception,  quite  unconvincing,  an  obvious 
failure.  It  would  not  have  deceived  me,  I  think, 
even  if  I  had  not  watched  her  with  my  own  eyes  tie 
the  handkerchief  round  the  head  of  the  corpse,  and 
seal  its  eyes  with  the  coins.  But  it  was  the  best  she 
could  accomplish  in  her  instinctive  shame. 

"  Oh!  I'm  not  cold,"  I  whispered. 

This  was  all  we  said;  this  was  the  whole  of  our 
exchange.  No  splendid  phrase,  bursting  from  the 
heart!  No  expressive  gesture!  No  pathetic  cry! 
Just  a  poor  little  stammering  lie,  and  a  banal  re- 
mark! Yet  she  had  wept  passionately  on  the  body 

244 


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of  that  corpse,  and  I  was  assuredly  full  of  an  im- 
mense sympathy  for  her. 

Without  any  warning  of  any  kind  she  turned  and 
ran,  staggering,  back  into  the  bathroom.  She 
literally  ran.  And  as  she  went  her  whole  body 
seemed  to  heave  in  a  great  physical  crisis.  She 
banged  the  door  of  the  bathroom,  but  it  did  not 
latch.  I  continued  to  hear  noises  in'  the  bathroom, 
now  violent,  now  low  and  prolonged.  I  was  left 
alone,  neglected,  ignored.  I  had  foreseen  that  my 
return  to  life  might  produce  strange  manifestations 
in  Inez,  but  the  manifestation  which  it  actually  did 
produce  was  strange  beyond  my  prevision.  I  per- 
ceived once  again,  as  often  I  had  perceived  before, 
that  the  effect  of  intense  emotion  on  the  human 
organism  is  incalculable. 

:t  The  worst  is  over  now!"  I  thought,  with  re- 
lief. 

I  glanced  about  the  bedroom,  and  my  eye  rested 
with  its  old  satisfaction  on  the  furniture  and  the 
decoration  of  the  room.  In  front  of  me,  placed 
specially  so  that  I  could  always  see  it  as  I  lay  in 
bed,  was  a  reproduction  of  Velasquez's  "  Lady 
with  a  Fan."  It  seemed  to  me  as  beautiful  as  ever. 
And  the  light  that  came  through  the  ground  glass 
of  the  window  seemed  to  me  as  beautiful  as  ever. 
Often  had  I  watched  that  window  gradually  be- 

245 


THE   GLIMPSE 


tray  the  dawn.  Often  had  I  deeply  felt  that  pure 
silvery  formless  light  was  unsurpassable  as  a  source 
of  ecstatic  aesthetic  pleasure.  And  I  felt  exactly 
the  same  now.  I  did  not  regard  the  supernal  beau- 
ties from  which  I  had  been  exiled  as  a  dream,  or 
as  in  the  nature  of  a  dream.  I  knew  that  they  were 
all  as  real  as  the  coins  which  Inez  had  picked  up, 
and  as  the  bell  cord  at  my  shoulder.  I  remembered 
that,  during  the  period  when  I  experienced  those 
other  beauties,  every  earthly  phenomena  had  ap- 
peared to  me  gross,  ugly,  tawdry.  Yet  now  my 
bedroom,  and  this  common  earthly  light,  did  not 
lose  by  any  comparison. 

Nor  had  I  the  sensation  of  being  a  prisoner  in 
my  body.  And  my  body  did  not  seem  heavy,  hard, 
and  unresponsive.  I  was  not  surprised  that  I  had 
no  perception  of  any  kind  of  a  radiant  body  in- 
closing the  opaque.  A  few  minutes  earlier  I  had 
seen,  veritably  seen,  all  the  wayfarers  in  Knights- 
bridge  incandescent  like  torches  shaming  the  sun, 
and  had  marveled  at  their  blindness  to  themselves. 
But  I  did  not  marvel  now  at  my  own  blindness.  I 
said  to  myself,  as  of  another  person:  "  He  has  lost 
consciousness.  It  is  only  the  outermost  parts  of 
his  consciousness  that  are  now  active/'  But  I  did 
not  feel  this,  I  only  reasoned  it  out. 

I  was  not  tragically  grieved  at  my  expulsion 
246 


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from  those  other  planes.  I  was  sad,  but  gently, 
mildly;  with  a  melancholy  that  was  almost  agree- 
able to  savor.  There  was  in  me  no  fierce  longing, 
no  impatient  rebellion.  And  I  did  not  immoder- 
ately regret  my  lost  faculties — of  vision,  hearing, 
understanding,  emotional  elasticity,  and  nobility  of 
sentiment.  I  did  not  consider  myself  blind,  deaf, 
stupid,  or  ignoble. 

Perhaps  I  was  stayed  by  the  thought: 

"  I  shall  go  back.  Nothing  can  prevent  me  from 
going  back  sooner  or  later." 

Yes,  this  thought  gave  me  a  profound  sense  of 
security — it  was  so  sure.  It  was  a  rock.  The 
wonder  of  the  miracle  of  which  I  had  been  the  sub- 
ject solemnized  me  more  and  more  as  the  minutes 
passed.  I — not  another,  but  I! — had  been  des- 
tined to  this  incomparably  sublime  adventure.  Be- 
tween the  thought  of  my  ultimate  security  and  the 
dizzy  thought  of  the  grandeur  of  the  dread  privi- 
lege that  had  been  mine,  I  thrilled.  And,  this,  too, 
was  a  precious  and  exquisite  experience. 

My  body  began  slowly  to  assert  itself.  I  had 
no  pain;  I  was  not  conscious  of  fatigue;  nor,  since 
I  made  no  effort  to  move,  of  weakness.  But,  with- 
out any  pang  of  hunger,  I  was  aware  that  my  body 
needed  food.  After  a  time  this  bodily  desire  de- 
stroyed all  my  other  sensations,  and  monopolized 

247 


THE   GLIMPSE 


me.  I  argued:  "Why  trouble  about  food?  Why 
not  sink  away  again?  Food!  .  .  .  How  ridicu- 
lously unimportant!  "  But  argument  was  futile.  I 
wanted  food,  and  I  wanted  attention,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  I  had  been  completely  forgotten  by  every- 
body. There  was  no  sound  now  from  the  bath- 
room. Was  I  to  be  neglected  forever?  It  was 
astounding  that  Inez  should  leave  me  so.  I  began 
to  see  that  I  must  help  myself  by  performing  some 
definite  act.  And  I  shaped  the  scheme  of  lifting 
my  right  arm  and  seizing  the  bulb  at  the  end  of 
the  bell  cord  and  pushing  against  the  little  ivory 
knob  on  the  bulb.  I  envisaged  this  enterprise  as 
something  complicated  and  difficult,  as  something 
requiring  courage  and  energy,  as  something  de- 
cisive and  final,  only  to  be  done  under  extreme 
stress  of  circumstances.  And  just  as  I  was  pre- 
pared to  raise  my  hand,  I  heard  voices.  And  I 
stopped,  as  it  were  guiltily,  holding  all  my  frame 
intensely  immobile,  like  a  thief  disturbed. 

The  voices  were  approaching  along  the  passage 
which  led  from  the  kitchen  to  the  vestibule.  The 
principal  door  of  the  bedroom  was  ajar.  The 
voices  continued  on  the  other  side  of  that  door,  in 
the  vestibule;  quiet,  awed,  and — one  of  them  at 
any  rate — loquacious.  This  was  the  voice  of  my 
cook,  a  woman  whom  I  had  not  heard  utter  a  dozen 

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words  in  a  month,  a  woman  of  whom  my  impres- 
sion was  that  she  never  spoke. 

"  Yes,"  I  heard  my  cook  say,  "  Marion — that's 
the  parlor  maid — she's  gone  to  bed.  Mistress  sent 
her.  And  really  between  you  and  me  she  was  fit 
for  nothing,  didn't  know  what  she  was  doing  of 
no  more  than  that  clock — not  so  well.  As  soon  as 
ever  eight  o'clock  struck  mistress  sent  me  for  the 
porter  to  take  two  telegrams,  one  to  master's  sis- 
ter— so  the  porter  told  me — and  another  to  Cap- 
tain Hulse — that's  a  friend  of  the  family.  I  don't 
know  why  she  didn't  telephone  to  Captain  Hulse. 
They're  always  a-telephoning.  I  suppose  she 
couldn't  fancy  it — telling  him  over  the  telephone 
as  master  was  gone.  It  was  when  the  porter  hap- 
pened to  mention  to  me  as  you  were  in  the  Man- 
sions, laying  out  those  poor  twins  on  the  first  floor, 
as  I  first  thought  how  handy  it  would  be  for  you 
to  step  in  here,  you  being  close  to,  like,  if  you  un- 
derstand me." 

"  Quite,"  said  the  other  voice,  dryly — it  ap- 
peared to  be  a  better  educated  voice.  "  Where  is 
your  mistress,  Mrs. — what's  the  name?  " 

"  Loring."  My  cook's  voice  dropped :  "  I  expect 
she's  lying  down  a  bit  in  the  drawing-room.  ...  So 
I  told  her  you  were  in  the  Mansions.  And  you 
may  not  believe  me,  but  she'd  never  given  a  thought 

249 


THE    GLIMPSE 


to  his  being  laid  out,  like!  It  hadn't  crossed  her 
mind  as  he  ought  to  be  laid  out  as  soon  as  might 
be.  ...  However,  I  needn't  tell  you  that!  No! 
She  gave  a  regular  start.  I  told  her  it  might  be 
too  late  for  him  to  be  laid  out  properly  even  now, 
but " 

"When  did  he  die?" 

I  heard  my  cook  suddenly  weeping.  "  Two 
o'clock,  it  seems.  Two  o'clock  or  hardly.  And 
the  doctor  ain't  been  since.  Eh!  I  don't  know 
what!  All  at  sixes  and  sevens.  There's  nothing 
like  a  corpse  for  putting  everything  at  sixes  and 
sevens.  So  mistress  told  me  to  go  down  to 
the  first  floor,  and  her  compliments  and  would 
you  step  up  here  as  soon  as  you'd  finished  down 
there.  I  don't  know  whether  I  shouldn't  prefer 
you  to  go  and  get  it  done  without  disturbing  her, 
poor  dear !  I  always  think  it's  best  as  these  things 
should  be  done  quiet,  like.  Of  course  you  know 
best "  Tears  again. 

"  Which  is  the  room  ?  "  asked  the  other  voice. 

"  It's  here,"  said  my  cook.  "  He  makes  as  fine 
a  corpse  as  ever  you  see !  And  you'll  say  so,  ma'am, 
though  of  course  my  experience  is  nothing  to  yours." 

She  pushed  open  the  door. 

Had  it  been  possible,  I  would  have  spared  my 
cook  the  ordeal  that  awaited  her  within  the  doorway. 

250 


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I  felt  extremely  sorry  for  her.  But  I  was  helpless. 
I  saw  her  stoutish  figure  in  the  doorway  and  her 
tearful,  excellent  face;  and  behind  her  another 
woman,  younger  and  thinner,  in  a  cloak  and  bonnet. 

"  Eh !  "  the  cook  faltered  as  her  eye  met  mine. 
She  seemed  to  waver  backward.  All  the  color  left 
her  face. 

"  Now,  cook,"  I  reassured  her,  in  a  tone  weak  but 
persuasive.  "  Bring  me  some  milk  and  soda,  please, 
at  once." 

"  Nay,  nay !  "  she  moaned,  withdrawing.  "  Him 
asking  like  that  for  milk  and  soda !  He's  asking  for 
milk  and  soda !  .  .  .  I  suppose  it's  no  use  you  wait- 
ing now,  ma'am.  .  .  .  And  there's  the  front-door 
bell.  I  do  pray  and  beseech  Almighty  God  it's  the 
doctor.  All  sixes  and  sevens !  " 

The  door  was  pulled  to. 


17 


CHAPTER    XXXI 

THE    MYSTERY 

THE  voices  of  the  doctor  and  of  Mary  in  the 
vestibule  reassured  me.  By  chance  these 
two  must  have  arrived  simultaneously — met  perhaps 
in  the  entrance  hall  of  the  Mansions.  There  was 
now  no  necessity  for  me  to  take  on  my  own  shoul- 
ders the  burden  of  our  servants'  nerves.  (Already 
I  was  foreseeing  that  the  cook  would  be  running 
off  to  wake  Marion  with  the  news  of  my  existence, 
and  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  flat  would  thus  be 
doubly  charged  with  panic.)  Nor  need  I  harass 
myself  concerning  the  mystery  of  my  wife's  strange 
seclusion  in  the  bathroom.  Both  the  doctor  and 
Mary  were  the  kind  of  people  who  are  never  over- 
matched by  an  emergency,  with  whom  the  proud 
consciousness  is  always  present  that  nothing  can 
rob  them  of  their  common  sense  and  their  wits. 
Their  influence  on  the  situation  was  at  once  mani- 
fest. After  a  few  excited  sentences  from  the  cook, 
there  was  a  sudden  hush,  caused  no  doubt  by 
an  imperative  gesture  from  Mary.  The  bedroom 

252 


THE   MYSTERY 


door  was  noiselessly  latched,  and  I  heard  no  more. 
Mary  and  the  doctor  had  evidently  led  the  cook 
away  into  the  dining  room  (which  was  farthest 
from  the  bedroom)  in  order  to  learn  in  detail  the 
astounding  facts  which  the  frightened  woman  had 
briefly  disclosed  in  a  hysterical  cascade  at  the  front 
door. 

It  was  a  situation  which  would  put  a  strain  on 
even  their  self-possession. 

I  heard  a  faint  stirring  in  the  bathroom. 

After  a  few  minutes  the  bedroom  door  opened 
gently.  Again  I  had  that  feeling  of  awkwardness, 
as  if  I  had  done  something  in  respect  to  which  my 
attitude  ought  to  be  slightly  apologetic.  Mary  en- 
tered, followed  by  the  doctor.  They  bore  them- 
selves well — they  had  arranged  on  their  .faces  an 
admirable  imitation  of  perfect  calmness — but  they 
were  certainly  at  the  limit  of  their  powers. 

"  Well,  Morrice,"  Mary  greeted  me  quietly.  "  It 
seems  you  took  advantage  of  my  early  departure 
last  night  to  go  and  be  very  ill.  .  .  .  Yet  he  doesn't 
look  so  very  ill,  after  all,  does  he,  doctor?  " 

I  could  have  wept — because  I  was  so  touched  by 
the  proud  adequacy  of  Mary's  bearing.  I  knew 
Mary ;  I  knew  what  she  was  concealing  of  emotion ; 
I  lived  in  her  for  an  agitated  instant — and  I  say  that 
I  could  have  wept  from  sympathy  with  her. 

253 


THE   GLIMPSE 


I  smiled.  They  were  on  either  side  of  the  bed, 
glancing  down  at  me  and  hesitating. 

"  Let's  have  a  look  at  him,"  said  the  doctor 
gruffly. 

"  Where's  Inez?  "  Mary  demanded. 

"  In  the  bathroom,"  I  whispered. 

And  at  the  same  moment  there  was  a  peculiar  and 
disconcerting  noise  in  the  bathroom,  and  then  we 
heard  a  moan. 

"Poor  thing!"  Mary  exclaimed.  "I'll  go  to 
her." 

"  Now,  my  boy,"  said  the  doctor,  when  he  and 
I  were  alone.  "  Keep  still.  Just  let  me  examine 
that  precious  heart  of  yours,  will  you  ?  " 

While  his  head  was  bent  to  my  breast,  I  said : 

"  She  thought  I  was  dead,  you  know." 

"  H'm !  "  he  said,  lifting  his  head,  and  taking  my 
pulse.  "  So  it  seems.  It's  a  mistake  people  make 
sometimes.  I  should  have  come  long  ago,  but  I 
was  kept  by  a  midwifery  case — seven  blessed  hours 
if  you  please.  .  .  .  Well,"  he  gazed  at  me  quizzic- 
ally. "  You  are  a  long  way  off  dead.  But  let  me 
tell  you,"  he  added  grimly,  as  though  calling  back 
a  little  lad  who  was  running  too  joyously  off  after 
being  acquitted  of  some  serious  charge,  "  let  me  tell 
you  you've  had  a  darned  near  shave,  my  friend !  " 

A  darned  near  shave!     For  him,  my  adventure 
254 


THE   MYSTERY 


was  to  be  summed  up  as  a  darned  near  shave.  All 
those  wonders,  miracles,  ecstasies,  revealings,  terrors 
—unique  and  unutterable — were  a  darned  near 
shave.  I  had  seen  the  infinite,  I  had  travelled 
through  millions  of  years  and  come  back  through 
millions  of  years,  I  had  had  knowledge  of  myself, 
I  was  made  sacred  to  myself  and  set  apart,  every 
human  being  was  made  sacred  to  me  and  set  apart 
—and  it  was  a  darned  near  shave!  But  how  could 
he  guess?  How  could  he  surmise,  he,  preoccupied 
always  by  the  heavy  labors  of  his  profession?  I 
felt  sure  that,  could  I  only  begin  a  narration  to  him 
of  my  darned  near  shave,  in  the  right  key,  could  I 
only  induce  in  him  the  right  receptive  mood,  nobody 
among  my  friends  would  be  more  imaginatively  im- 
pressed than  he,  and  nobody  more  sympathetically 
curious  and  inquiring.  But  I  should  never  be  able 
to  begin  the  narration.  I  should  never  be  able  to 
speak  about  it.  The  risks  of  a  misunderstanding, 
of  a  failure  to  communicate,  would  be  too  great.  I 
would  not  court  the  wound  that  incredulity  might 
inflict.  I  could  not  have  borne  to  see  hiding  behind 
the  doctor's  controlled  face  his  ironic  reflections  upon 
the  deluding  power  of  delirium  and  dream.  And 
just  as  no  one  could  be  more  sympathetic,  no  one 
was  more  capable  than  the  doctor  of  a  blasting  sa- 
tiric silence  when  his  terrible  common  sense  hap- 

255 


THE   GLIMPSE 


pened  to  be  affronted.  No!  I  should  have  to  accept 
the  definition  of  a  darned  near  shave.  I  did  accept 
it;  there  and  then  I  reconciled  myself  to  it.  ... 
The  fault  was  not  the  doctor's;  but  the  deprivation 
was  his,  and  I  was  sorry  for  him. 

"  I  think  I'd  better  have  something  to  eat/'  I 
said. 

"  Oh,  you  do,  do  you  ?  "  said  he. 

He  could  not  hide  his  joy  in  the  interesting-ness  of 
my  case.  His  pleasure  pleased  me.  It  was  a  pure 
scientific  pleasure,  untinged  by  desire.  I  thought 
how  fine  and  how  naive  he  was. 

"  When  did  you — come  to  yourself?  "  he  asked. 

"  About — I  don't  know — a  few  minutes  since,  I 
suppose." 

"Well,  we'll  see  about  getting  something  into 
you."  He  cleared  his  throat  as  if  preparing  to  call 
for  someone,  and  glanced  at  the  door,  at  the  bell 
cord,  and  at  the  bathroom  door.  His  spectacles 
gleamed  momentarily  white. 

The  bathroom  door,  which  Mary  in  her  immense 
discretion  had  closed,  was  opened  again,  and  Mary 
appeared. 

"  Oh !  I  say,  Mrs. ,"  said  the  doctor,  unable 

to  recall  my  sister's  name.  "  This  individual  is  as 
right  as  a  trivet." 

Mary  did  not  smile. 

256 


THE   MYSTERY 


"  Can  you  come  here  a  minute,  doctor?  "  she  asked 
gravely. 

"  Yes,"  said  he. 

They  both  vanished  into  the  bathroom.  Once 
more  I  was  neglected,  ignored.  Inez  must  be  ill. 
The  night  and  the  morning,  and  that  body  of  mine, 
and  my  resurrection,  must  have  been  too  much  for 
Inez.  It  seemed  to  me  shocking  that  events  should 
compel  a  woman  of  Inez's  temperament  to  go 
through  the  spiritual  convulsions  and  perturbations 
to  which  she  must  have  been  subjected.  The  idea 
horrified  me,  as  the  mental  picture  of  a  conscious 
dog  vivisected  will  horrify.  I  could  feel  all  that 
Inez  must  have  suffered.  I  thought  that  a  long  fu- 
ture of  continuous  happiness  could  scarcely  compen- 
sate her  for  her  sufferings.  I  wished  ardently  to 
arrange  somehow  a  due  recompense  for  her. 

Mary  appeared. 

"  We're  just  going  to  bring  Inez  in  here/'  said 
she,  in  a  tone  carefully  casual.  "  She  isn't  well." 

I  expected  that  they  would  lead  Inez  in.  But  Inez 
was  carried  in,  stretched  out  horizontally,  the  doctor 
at  her  shoulders  and  Mary  at  her  feet.  They  laid 
her  on  her  bed. 

«  But "  I  began. 

"  Don't  worry  yourself,"  the  doctor  interrupted 
me.  "  You  can't  do  anything.  She's  unwell." 

257 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Then  to  Mary :  "  Chalk's  what  I  want.  And  lime- 
water.  And  then  hot  flannels  and  so  on.  Chalk 
first." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary,  and  went  out  silently. 

The  doctor  also  rushed  out  of  the  room  into  my 
study,  and  returned  with  a  large  threefold  screen, 
with  which  he  shut  off  my  bed  from  the  other  one. 
Behind  the  screen  I  could  now  hear  his  movements, 
and  the  moans  of  Inez.  Articles  of  her  clothing 
were  flung  out  beyond  the  shelter  of  the  screen. 
Excitement  and  movement  increased.  People  came 
in  and  out  of  the  bedroom.  The  screen  hid  the  prin- 
cipal door,  but  I  could  hear  Mary,  and  I  could  hear 
the  cook,  and  then  I  could  hear  Marion.  The  doc- 
tor gave  orders  to  everybody,  and  Mary  gave 
orders  to  the  servants — polite,  but  coldly  incisive 
and  peremptory.  And  I  could  hear  the  pouring 
out  of  liquids,  and  creakings  of  the  bed,  and  cries 
from  Inez,  and  Mary's  soothing  reassurances  to 
her. 

"  What's  that?  "  I  heard  Mary  demand. 

"  It's  milk  and  soda  for  master,  Mrs.  Dean,"  the 
cook's  voice  replied  proudly.  "  He  asked  for  it. 
Shall  I  give  it  him?  " 

"  Yes.  Give  him  anything  he  wants,"  said  the 
doctor  curtly. 

The  cook  made  her  appearance  in  front  of  the 

258 


THE   MYSTERY 


screen,  benevolently  triumphant  with  the  milk  and 
soda.  In  the  midst  of  all  the  commotion  caused 
by  her  mistress,  she  had  remembered  my  request, 
•and  she  was  proud  of  having  remembered  my  re- 
quest. When  I  had  drunk  the  milk  and  soda: 

"  There!  "  she  murmured,  satisfied,  and  ventured 
to  arrange  my  pillow.  She  had  recovered  from  her 
fright,  and  was  now  burning  to  atone  for  it.  She 
was  ready  to  melt  in  her  solicitude.  I  smiled  and 
was  rewarded,  and  it  seemed  to  me  pathetic  that 
such  a  trifle  as  a  smile  from  me  should  produce  in 
her  such  delight.  She  dared  not  remain  longer  by 
my  side,  and  so  reluctantly  departed,  the  empty  glass 
rattling  on  the  plate.  I  wished  that  I  could  better 
have  made  her  comprehend  the  degree  of  my  ap- 
preciation. 

Mary  appeared.  She  had  taken  off  her  hat,  and 
was  wearing  a  servant's  white  apron,  and  a  pair  of 
slippers.  She  raised  her  hand  to  enjoin  silence  in 
respect  to  events  on  the  other  side  of  the  screen. 
I  nodded.  "You  all  right?"  she  whispered.  I 
nodded  again.  There  was  almost  silence  now  on 
the  other  side  of  the  screen.  The  doctor  appeared. 

"  Look  here/'  he  said,  very  quietly.  "  I  think 
if  this  young  man  could  be  removed  to  the  sofa  in 
the  drawing-room.  .  .  .  Can  you  fix  him  up  a 
sheet  and  pillows  on  the  sofa?  We  shall  be  able  to 

259 


THE   GLIMPSE 


look  after  him  better  there.     Not  that  he  wants 
much  looking  after  now." 

"  Yes,"  said  Mary.  "  I  think  that's  a  very  good 
idea." 

My  transference  to  the  sofa  in  the  drawing-room 
was  executed  with  the  maximum  of  celerity  and 
comfort  under  the  direction  of  these  two.  I  discov- 
ered that  I  could  walk  with  their  aid.  And  as  I 
passed  slowly  through  the  study,  I  felt  like  one  who 
passes  through  a  country  unvisited  since  childhood. 
So  I  lay  in  the  drawing-room,  and  was  abandoned 
again.  The  cook  brought  me  more  food. 

"  Will  you  tell  Mrs.  Dean  I  want  to  speak  to  her, 
if  she  can  spare  half  a  minute  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,"  the  cook  agreed  heartily. 

During  the  brief  time  that  the  doctor  and  Mary 
had  remained  with  me  in  the  drawing-room,  super- 
intending my  installation,  I  had  waited  for  one  or 
the  other  of  them  to  enlighten  me  as  to  Inez.  I 
knew  that  Inez  was  suffering  from  more  than  a 
mere  indisposition  consequent  upon  nervous  shock 
and  strain.  But  neither  of  them  said  a  word.  We 
were  alone  together  in  the  drawing-room,  where 
Inez  could  not  overhear,  and  yet  neither  of  them 
had  said  a  word.  And  somehow  I  had  not  been  able 
to  bring  myself  to  ask.  Strange!  Strange  on  their 
part  and  on  mine! 

260 


THE   MYSTERY 


Now  the  mystery  grew,  and  seemed  to  pervade 
the  whole  flat.  I  could  not  support  it. 

Mary  entered,  quickly,  quietly,  with  questioning 
face. 

"  I  say,  Mary,"  I  asked  her  as  cheerfully  as  I 
could.  "  Is  anything  really  the  matter  there  ?  " 

"Where?"     She  stiffened. 

"Inez?" 

"  She's  certainly  ill." 

"What's  up?" 

Her  features  became  severe,  refusing.  She  could 
not  help  it.  It  was  in  her  character  to  decline  to 
yield  to  the  whims  of  a  patient  who  ought  to  have 
no  will  of  his  own.  It  was  in  her  character,  in  a 
time  of  difficulty  or  crisis,  to  act  in  the  best  interests 
of  those  weaker  than  herself  gently  but  ruthlessly 
regardless  of  their  unreasonable  wishes.  The  in- 
stinct in  her  was  deep.  She — or  she  and  the  doctor 
in  council — had  decided  that  it  would  be. better  for 
me  not  to  occupy  myself  with  Inez's  condition — 
had  they  not  removed  me  from  the  bedroom? — 
hence  I  was  on  no  account  to  occupy  myself  with 
it.  I  was  to  be  content  with  such  information  as 
was  considered  proper  for  me.  There  was  no  dan- 
ger for  me,  and  I  was  to  be  treated  strictly  accord- 
ing to  reason.  I  could  read  all  that  on  her  face. 
And  yet  she  wanted  to  tell  me;  she  brimmed  with 

261 


THE   GLIMPSE 


the  mysterious  fact  withheld.  Only  the  stern  in- 
stinct prevented  her  from  brimming  over. 

"  I — perhaps  the  doctor  will  be  popping  in  here 
soon,"  she  said,  and  moved  away.  '  You  all 
right  ?  "  she  added  at  the  door,  smiling  seriously. 

"  Yes,  thanks/'  I  said.  I  knew  how  she  felt,  and 
how  the  instinct  of  harshness,  under  the  guise  of 
reason,  influenced  her  conduct.  I  was  often  con- 
scious of  the  same  instinct  in  myself. 

The  doctor  did  presently  come  in. 

"  The  truth  is,"  he  said,  sitting  down  on  a  chair 
near  the  sofa,  "  your  wife's  been  drinking  oxalic 
acid.  I  should  say  she  must  have  drunk  about  three 
penn'orth  of  that  stuff.  I  found  the  bottle  in  the 
bathroom.  From  what  I  can  learn  she  must  have 
drunk  it  about  half-past  ten  or  so  this  morning." 

I  said  nothing. 

"  It's  just  as  well  you  should  know,"  he  added. 

"  You  see,  it's  so  handy,  oxalic  acid  is,"  he  ex- 
plained. "  Every  woman  keeps  it  for  cleaning  straw 
hats,  or  taking  stains  out  of  linen.  It's  so  infer- 
nally handy." 

"  But  do  you  mean  to  say  it's  fatal  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  always,"  he  replied.  "  I  may  pull  her 
through." 

The  tone  was  not  convincing,  nor  apparently  was 
it  meant  to  be  convincing.  His  eye,  when  it  caught 

262 


THE   MYSTERY 


mine,  seemed  to  be  saying :  "  Whatever  the  vagaries 
of  human  nature,  the  true  philosopher  is  never  sur- 
prised by  them.  And  one  vagary  is  not  more 
strange  than  another." 

He  had  been  up  all  night  He  had  probably  had 
no  sleep  for  about  thirty  hours.  He  had  assisted 
almost  continuously,  during  that  time,  at  scenes  of 
danger  and  emotion,  and  yet  he  was  master  of  him- 
self and  of  his  body.  He  did  not  even  yawn.  He 
might  have  just  strolled  gently  down  Bayswater 
Road  to  see  me  about  a  trifling  complaint,  after  a 
long  night's  rest  and  a  leisurely  breakfast.  Despite 
the  frankness  which  he  used  to  those  whom  he 
treated  as  his  equals  in  practical  philosophy,  there 
was  always  a  mystery  behind  the  glint  of  that  man's 
spectacles.  Such  was  his  grim  power  that  for  a 
few  moments  I  did  not  truly  realize  that  Inez  had 
been  trying  to  commit  suicide.  I  knew  the  fact,  but 
T  did  not  realize  it.  The  realization  came  gradually. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

THE  BEDSIDE 

MORRICE!" 
Mary  came  into  the  drawing-room  with  a 
new  burden  in  her  voice.  It  was  late  in  the  after- 
noon. The  doctor  had  gone.  A  nurse  had  been  sent 
for,  but  had  not  yet  arrived.  Mary  had  reorganized 
the  life  of  the  flat  on  a  fresh  basis,  with  Inez  on  her 
bed  as  its  principal  center,  and  me  on  the  sheeted 
sofa  as  a  subsidiary  center.  And  already,  under 
Mary's  wand,  under  her  perfect  confidence  that  she 
was  equal  to  the  situation,  the  life  of  the  flat  was 
running  smoothly  and  regularly.  No  noise!  No 
confusion!  No  hysteria  of  servants!  Hysteria 
could  not  exist  near  Mary.  She  had  doffed  the 
apron — sign  that  order  reigned.  And  yet  now  there 
was  apprehension  in  her  voice.  She  looked  at  me  in 
silence,  examining  me,  apparently  undecided. 

"How  is  she?"  I  asked. 

"  She  wants  to  see  you,"  said  Mary.  "  I  don't 
know  what  the  doctor  would  say.  I  really  don't. 
Do  you  think  you  could  get  as  far  as  the  bedroom 

264 


THE    BEDSIDE 


without  doing  yourself  any  harm?  You're  very 
weak." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  I  said.  "  I  must  come.  I  feel  quite 
all  right.  I  must  come." 

"  She  wanted  to  come  to  you.  In  fact,  I  had  my 
work  cut  out  to  stop  her.  But  you're  certainly  better 
able  to  go  to  her  than  she  is  to  come  to  you,  and 
as  she  wants  to  see  you " 

"  Considering  that  I  walked  in  here " 

"  No,  you  didn't."  Mary  corrected  my  pride 
somewhat  curtly.  "  You  were  practically  carried  in 
here.  Perhaps,  if  I  help  you,  and  one  of  the  ser- 
vants  " 

"  I  don't  want  the  servants." 

"  No,"  she  agreed.     "  But " 

She  would  carefully  weigh  every  project.  She 
would  leave  nothing  to  impulse  when  risks  had  to  be 
faced. 

'  You  can't  stop  with  her  long,  you  know — it 
wouldn't  do  for  either  of  you,"  she  said,  as  we  passed 
through  the  study. 

The  bedroom  was  arranged  with  minute  neatness. 
The  first  thing  I  noticed  was  that  my  bed  had  been 
made,  and  the  counterpane  disposed  in  an  unfamiliar 
way.  Mary  must  have  made  the  bed  herself.  There 
was  a  faint  odor  of  eau  de  cologne.  At  the  side 
of  the  other  bed  was  a  table  which  had  been  carried 

265 


THE   GLIMPSE 


in  out  of  the  vestibule ;  it  had  a  white  cloth  and  was 
covered  with  bottles,  glasses,  and  some  larger  ves- 
sels. Between  the  two  beds  a  chair  had  been  placed 
for  me.  It  appeared  to  me  that  I  was  afraid  to  look 
at  Inez.  I  distinguished  her  form  on  the  bed  while 
my  eye  avoided  her.  I  dropped  into  the  chair. 
Yes,  I  was  weak.  I  could  feel  the  tears  rising,  and 
I  sought  to  drive  them  back. 

"  Be  sure  to  keep  your  dressing  gown  well  over 
your  knees,"  Mary  whispered.  And  then  she  left  us, 
with  silent  tread. 

Why  should  my  eye  have  been  timid  to  look  at 
Inez  ?  I  do  not  know.  Throughout  the  afternoon  I 
had  been  thinking :  "  How  she  must  have  suffered — 
to  make  her  take  the  poison !  "  And  now  that  I  was 
by  her  side,  the  conception  of  what  she  had  suffered 
lacerated  me  almost  intolerably.  Of  course  it  was 
remorse  that  had  driven  Inez  to  suicide.  I  could 
picture  to  myself  her  violent  remorse,  her  remorse 
holy  in  its  intensity.  I  knew  how  she  must  in  her 
own  mind  have  torn  to  pieces  the  arguments  with 
which  she  had  defended  herself  to  me,  accusing  her- 
self of  my  death,  and  judging  her  conduct  in  the 
light  of  its  accidental  consequence,  despising  logic 
in  a  paroxysm  of  contrition.  I  could  picture  to  my- 
self her  existence  through  the  night  and  the  dawn. 
I  knew  that  she  had  changed  her  dress,  and  that  she 

266 


THE   BEDSIDE 


had  dispatched  telegrams.  She  had  probably  kept 
an  appearance  of  calm,  probably  convinced  herself 
that  she  was  calm.  And  then  suddenly,  with  no 
warning,  she  had  yielded,  and  her  remorse  had  be- 
come a  frenzy.  And  in  an  instant  she  had  thought 
of  the  oxalic  acid.  Was  it  just  before  she  drank  it 
that  she  had  prayed  for  my  everlasting  welfare  ?  It 
must  have  been  in  some  such  supreme  moment  that 
she  had  prayed. 

When  I  looked  at  her  the  conception  of  what  she 
must  have  suffered  overpowered  me.  ...  It  was 
her  presence.  ...  I  was  startled,  shocked,  to  find 
that  I  could  not  control  myself.  Tears  ran  down 
my  face,  as  I  had  seen  tears  running  down  the  face 
of  children.  A  little  more,  and  I  should  have  sobbed. 

Her  hair  was  loose  over  the  pillow.  Always  there 
was  something  strange  to  me  about  Inez,  and  es- 
pecially about  her  hair,  when  she  lay  in  bed.  .  .  . 
I  don't  know.  ...  A  disclosure  of  the  original 
woman.  ...  I  suppose  it  was  the  revelation  of  the 
true  forms  and  attitudes  of  her  body,  and  the  revela- 
tion also  of  the  depth  of  her  physical  life.  Inez  lived 
in  her  body.  .  .  .  Do  you  understand  me?  .  .  . 
She  thrilled  in  her  body  as  some  people  thrill  in  their 
souls.  It  was  splendid.  It  was  rare  and  distin- 
guished. And  her  loose  hair  on  the  pillow,  or  per- 
haps the  abandonment  of  an  arm,  was  the  symbol  of 
18  267 


THE   GLIMPSE 


all  this.  I  could  feel  it  now.  Her  face  was  bloated, 
the  lips  redder  and  more  raw  than  ever;  it  was 
drawn  into  a  permanent  and  profound  apprehen- 
siveness;  her  breath  came  difficult  and  irregular;  a 
hiccough  shook  her.  Nevertheless,  I  could  feel  now 
all  the  fineness  of  what  her  physical  life  had  been; 
it  had  all  receded  to  her  wide-spread  hair,  and  was 
therein  visible.  .  .  .  But  the  change,  the  havoc! 
Last  night  I  had  been  the  victim,  the  ravaged  rem- 
nant of  man,  and  she  the  perfectly  functioning  or- 
ganism. Now,  my  blood  was  flowing  strongly,  and 
she  was  the  victim.  While  I  was  in  the  drawing- 
room  I  had  speculated,  with  remarkable  detachment, 
upon  the  wondrous  and  dire  adventures  that  were 
awaiting  her  if  she  should  die.  And  I  did  not  much 
grieve,  because  I  watched  her  through  them  to  the 
climax.  Indeed,  I  envied  her,  in  that  she  might  pre- 
cede me  thither.  That  was  in  the  drawing-room. 
But  as  I  sat  by  her  bed,  and  timorously  looked  at  her 
corrupted  and  broken,  I  could  have  cried  out  to  her, 
that  if  she  would  only  recover  and  forget,  I  would 
never  ask  of  destiny  another  favor.  So  terribly  was 
my  sense  of  justice  outraged  by  her  martyrdom !  I 
wanted  to  pour  my  strength  into  her,  and  by  the 
magic  of  an  intense  volition  restore  that  skin  to  its 
pure  brilliance,  and  the  contours  of  that  face  to  their 
soft  carelessness. 

268 


THE   BEDSIDE 


What  could  I  say  to  her  ?  I  could  say  nothing  ex- 
cept her  name. 

She  raised  her  head  anxiously,  and  looked  in  turn 
at  the  three  doors  of  the  bedroom,  to  see  that  they 
were  all  closed. 

"  It  wasn't  all  true,"  she  said,  in  a  whisper,  when 
she  had  satisfied  herself  about  the  doors,  "  what  I 
told  you  last  night." 

"  Don't  worry  about  that  now,"  I  said,  trying  to 
make  of  my  voice  a  reassuring  caress.  But  my  voice 
was  broken,  and  I  averted  my  face  to  hide  my  tears. 

"  But  I  must/'  she  went  on  whispering.  "  It's 
very  important.  It's  very  important  for  everybody 
that  you  should  know.  I  was  only  playing 
with  Johnnie,  and  he  was  only  playing  with  me. 
.  .  .  My  fault.  I  drew  him  on.  Yes,  I  drew  him 
on.  When  I  say  '  only  playing '  I  mean  it  wasn't 
serious.  It  wasn't  honest.  I  might  have  been  his 
mistress  to-day,  but  I  didn't  really  care  for  him, 
nor  him  for  me.  I  pretended  to  myself  I  did;  but 
I  didn't.  .  .  .  Just  wickedness,  wickedness!  " 

The  sentences  were  interrupted  by  the  hiccough, 
and  by  her  difficult  breathing.  She  looked  at  me 
fixedly,  with  a  set,  anxious  face.  One  hand  was 
hanging  limply  over  the  edge  of  the  bed.  I  could 
divine  that  she  wished  to  humiliate  herself  utterly; 
her  nature  compelled  her  to  be  spectacular.  And 

269 


THE   GLIMPSE 


my  wish  was  to  put  an  end  to  her  self-humiliation. 
Then  I  thought:  "  But  if  this  display  satisfies  her 
instinct,  what  right  have  I  to  try  to  stop  it?  She 
is  perfectly  sincere.  She  has  her  way  of  self- 
expression,  and  I  have  mine." 

"  I  hope  you  aren't  going  to  worry  about  all 
that,"  I  answered.  "  What  you  said  about  me  last 
night  was  true  enough,  anyhow.  It's  all  just  as 
much  my  fault  as  anybody's.  Let's  both  forget  it." 

If  I,  too,  could  have  humiliated  myself  deeply,  if 
we  could  have  mingled  in  passionate  abasement, 
each  snatching  remorsefully  at  the  whole  of  the 
blame,  she  would  have  been  more  content.  But 
this  was  beyond  me. 

"  It's  very  important  in  this  way,"  she  went  on. 
"  He  really  is  in  love  with  Mary,  though  he  doesn't 
quite  know  it.  He  really  is.  And  of  course  she  is 
with  him.  I  was  only  interfering.  .  .  .  Jealous.  I 
stopped  playing  the  piano  last  night  because  she 
was  too  close  to  me.  I  could  feel  .  .  ." 

"  Yes,  yes,"  I  interrupted  her.  I  could  not  help 
myself. 

"  But  you  understand  why  I'm  telling  you  all 
this?"  she  insisted. 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  more  gently.  But  I  did  not  care. 
I  was  too  tortured  by  sympathy  for  her  to  be  in- 
terested in  information  about  other  people.  "  Can 

270 


THE   BEDSIDE 


I  get  you  anything?  "  The  maintenance  of  life 
seemed  to  be  so  difficult  to  her  that  one's  first 
thought  was  to  press  aid  upon  her. 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  promise  me  something, 
Morrice,"  she  said,  never  raising  her  voice  above  a 
whisper. 

I  made  no  response. 

"  Father  Crowder  is  coming.  He  will  give  me 
extreme  unction.  And  I  want  you  to  be  here, 
Morrice." 

I  had  a  strong  antipathy  to  priests  of  all  kinds, 
though  I  disliked  Roman  Catholic  priests  a  little 
less  than  others.  No  priest  had  ever  entered  my 
home.  It  had  not  occurred  to  me  that  Inez,  sup- 
posing her  to  be  desperately  ill,  would  have  need 
of  her  Church.  She  seldom  spoke  to  me  of  her 
religious  practices.  I  never  knew  when  she  went 
to  confession.  Save  for  her  punctiliousness  con- 
cerning the  observation  of  Friday  and  of  Lent,  I 
might  almost  have  forgotten  that  she  was  a  pro- 
fessed Roman  Catholic.  I  was  now  being  re- 
minded! The  idea  of  assisting  at  a  religious  cere- 
mony in  my  own  home  revolted  me.  I  should  have 
to  kneel!  .  .  .  Could  I  not  excuse  myself  on  the 
plea  of  my  illness?  Surely  I  was  weak  enough! 

"  Certainly,  if  you  wish  it,"  I  said.  Why  should 
I  not  gratify  her  by  the  sacrifice  of  some  of  my 

271 


THE    GLIMPSE 


intellectual  pride?  To  kneel — was  it  so  grave  to 
kneel? 

"  Thank  you." 

"  But  you'll  be  all  right  again  in  a  week,"  I  said. 
"  The  doctor  said  he  should  pull  you  through.  And 
he  will."  At  the  moment  of  saying  this  I  truly 
meant  it.  I  could  not  think  that  Inez  would  die. 

'''  Touch  my  hand,"  she  said. 

It  was  ice  cold.  I  put  it  under  the  bedclothes. 
I  can  still  remember  the  feel  of  the  fine  lace  at  her 
wrist. 

"  Have  they  told  you  what  I  did? "  she  de- 
manded suddenly,  in  a  different  tone,  having 
changed  her  posture. 

I  nodded. 

"  I  thought  you  were  dead,"  she  said.  "  I 
thought  I'd  killed  you." 

"Inez!" 

"  You  must  kiss  me,"  she  whispered.  "  Don't 
hurt  me — my  lips." 

She  slightly  raised  her  face.  There  was  an  ap- 
peal in  it,  plaintive,  simple — I  don't  know!  I 
sobbed.  ...  I  thought  I  could  write  down  every- 
thing, but  I  can't.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   XXXIII 

THE    CEREMONY 

IT  seemed  to  me  impossible  that  she  was  near 
death.  I  could  not  imagine  her  dead.  And 
yet  that  night,  in  the  bedroom,  and  in  the  flat  gen- 
erally, an  atmosphere  presaging  immediate  death 
was  created.  The  weather  was  close,  and  doors 
and  windows  were  left  open.  We  expected  the 
priest.  We  listened  for  the  arrival  of  the  priest. 
I  lay  in  my  study;  Mary  had  caused  a  bed  to  be 
arranged  for  me  there.  Save  the  resulting  lassi- 
tude, I  felt  nothing  of  the  violent  attack  which  had 
overthrown  me  on  the  previous  evening;  and  the 
doctor  had  said  that  I  had  only  to  regain  my 
strength.  I  lay  on  a  folding  bed,  and  watched  the 
window  as  I  had  watched  it  twenty  hours  earlier. 
I  could  not  yet  envisage  clearly  and  proportion- 
ately either  my  adventure  or  my  return  therefrom 
to  the  dailiness  of  existence  in  the  flat.  I  mused 
on  it  vaguely  and  intermittently.  My  reflections 
had  no  distinct  form  and  no  particular  tendency. 
Wonder:  that  was  my  state.  One  of  my  faculties 

273 


THE   GLIMPSE 


was  absorbed  in  listening  for  the  advent  of  the 
priest.  Then  I  heard  the  front  door  open  and  shut, 
and  I  heard  a  man's  rich  voice.  Was  that  the 
voice  of  the  priest?  Was  the  priest  in  the  flat? 
And  after  another  minute  the  door  between  the 
study  and  the  bedroom  was  mysteriously  closed. 
And  then  Mary  came  into  the  study  from  the 
drawing-room,  and  said: 

"  He  has  come." 

"  The  priest?  " 

"  Yes.    He  is  with  her." 

The  priest  was  in  the  flat.  We  looked  at  each 
other,  Mary  and  I.  I  knew  what  was  in  her  mind, 
for  the  same  thing  was  in  my  mind.  Never  should 
we  be  able  to  eradicate  from  our  mentality  the 
attitude  toward  the  Roman  Church — half  hostile 
and  half  awed — which  a  Protestant  mother  had  un- 
wittingly formed  in  us.  For  over  twenty  years 
we  had  been  completely  emancipated  from  the  ex- 
ternal imposition  upon  us  of  any  dogmatic  ideas 
concerning  religion;  the  Protestant  mother  had 
died  when  Mary  was  twelve.  We  had  an  equal  in- 
tellectual disdain  of  all  dogma.  And  yet  a  Roman 
Catholic  priest,  and  the  rites  over  which  he  pre- 
sided, escaped  somehow  from  our  disdain.  We 
despised  our  mother's  clergymen.  But  her  horror 
of  the  astuteness  of  priests  had  had  a  result  in  us 

274 


THE   CEREMONY 


which  she  did  not  foresee.  There  was  something 
grandiosely  unnatural  about  a  priest,  something 
uniquely  impressive.  Even  my  revealing  adven- 
ture could  not  make  me  class  a  priest  with  other 
servants  of  different  gods.  I  remembered  the 
solace  of  Inez's  prayer  for  the  peace  of  my  soul. 
There  at  any  rate  the  Church  of  Rome  had  tri- 
umphed in  Inez.  When  Mary  said  that  the  priest 
had  come,  it  seemed  to  me,  and  it  seemed  to  her, 
as  if  the  Pope  had  come  into  my  home,  as  if  the 
whole  Catholic  Church,  its  traditions,  splendors, 
cruelties,  and  sublime  tenacities  had  come  into  my 
home;  as  if  the  Middle  Ages  had  entered  in  scar- 
let. The  nostrils  of  my  imagination  smelled  in- 
cense. 

Inez  was  being  confessed,  in  her  half-delirious 
weakness.  The  priest  was  hearing  matters  that  I 
could  never  hear,  judging  with  an  authority  that  I 
could  never  exert,  consoling  with  a  balm  that  I 
could  never  offer;  I,  her  husband;  I,  who  knew 
more  than  any  priest  had  ever  known.  I  could 
tell  Inez  nothing  of  what  I  knew;  the  idea  of 
attempting  to  tell  her  had  not  even  occurred  to 
me. 

Mary  left  me,  nervously.  I  had  not  informed  her 
of  Inez's  request.  Strange  diffidence  between 
brother  and  sister!  I  had  been  sitting  up  in  bed. 

275 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Without  too  much  difficulty  I  left  the  bed, 
and  sat  in  my  easy-chair,  wrapped  from  head  to 
foot  in  a  dressing  gown.  There  I  waited,  uneasy, 
not  knowing  exactly  what  would  happen  nor  what 
would  be  the  sequence  of  events.  What  did  hap- 
pen was  precisely  the  thing  that  I  had  not  antici- 
pated. The  little  door  giving  direct  access  to  the 
bedroom  opened,  and  the  vestmented  priest  him- 
self appeared  and  summoned  me.  There  was  no 
greeting  between  us.  He  glanced  at  me,  seemed 
startled  at  my  attire,  hesitated,  and  then  beck- 
oned, without  a  word.  His  gesture  was  digni- 
fied. I  obeyed.  Evidently  he  was  unaware  that  I 
was  supposed  not  to  be  able  to  walk  without 
assistance.  I  followed  him,  and  softly  closed  the 
door. 

I  was  surprised  to  see  Marion  in  the  bedroom. 
She  was  busy  at  the  dressing  table.  All  its  usual 
array  had  been  removed  from  the  dressing  table, 
and  a  white  napkin  spread.  On  the  napkin  was  a 
silver  vessel,  of  no  household  shape,  and  a  crucifix. 
My  Regency  candlesticks,  and  two  others,  had  been 
taken  from  their  customary  place,  and  garnished 
with  candles,  which  now  burned  flickering  at  either 
edge  of  the  dressing  table.  There  was  no  other 
illumination.  Her  spectacles  prevented  me  from 
seeing  Marion's  eyes,  yet  I  knew  at  once,  from 


THE   CEREMONY 


something  intense  and  passionate  in  her  posture, 
that  she  was  of  my  wife's  religion.  And  I  had 
not  known.  It  must  have  been  she  who  had  ar- 
ranged the  candlesticks.  She  was  in  apron  and 
cap  and  starched  wristbands,  but  she  had  ceased 
to  be  a  menial  and  had  become  a  devotee. 
Whether  or  not  she  had  asked  permission  to  re- 
main in  the  room,  I  felt  that  she  was  determined  to 
remain;  I  felt  that  she  had  promised  herself  this 
ecstasy  and  would  not  be  denied.  Upon  seeing  me, 
through  the  glass  of  the  dressing  table,  she  hurried 
toward  me,  and  led  me  to  the  large  chair  near  the 
bed.  None  spoke.  Inez  moaned  slightly,  moving 
amidst  her  hair  on  the  bed,  and  gazing  at  the  priest, 
rapt.  She  was  still  troubled  by  the  hiccough.  The 
bedclothes  had  been  disposed  in  a  particular  way. 
By  the  dressing  table  stood  Marion,  stiff  and  expect- 
ant, as  'I  always  found  her  standing  in  the  dining 
room  when  we  went  in  to  dinner.  I  looked  for  her 
radiant  form;  I  looked  for  the  visible  emission  of 
her  ecstasy  in  a  flight  of  thoughts,  but  I  saw  only 
Marion  in  black  and  white.  She  knew  not  that  I 
knew  far  more  of  her  than  she  knew  herself,  and 
that  her  most  secret  emotions  had  not  been  hidden 
from  me.  She  knew  not  that  she  had  been  a  mira- 
cle to  me. 

The  priest,  having  been  to  the  dressing  table, 
277 


THE   GLIMPSE 


approached  the  bed,  and  half  knelt.  And  at  the 
same  moment  Marion  knelt,  with  the  practiced  fa- 
cility of  one  accustomed  to  genuflexions.  And  the 
robe  of  the  priest  and  his  profile  stood  out  between 
the  light  of  the  candles  and  the  whiteness  of  the 
sheet,  and  his  shadow  fell  across  the  disfigured 
face  of  Inez,  which  she  turned  toward  him.  She 
shut  her  eyes,  and  with  his  thumb  he  anointed 
them  in  a  crosswise  motion,  saying  in  a  low,  sad 
voice: 

:t  Through  this  holy  unction,  and  His  most  ten- 
der mercy,  may  the  Lord  pardon  thee  whatsoever 
sins  thou  hast  committed  by  seeing.  .  .  .  Amen!  " 

He  was  a  stoutish  man  of  about  fifty,  with  an 
aristocratic  but  intelligent  face,  and  fine  nostrils; 
his  hand  was  ringed,  and  it  moved  with  graceful- 
ness— a  self-conscious  hand.  It  was  difficult  not 
to  believe  that  he  was  as  convinced  as  the  women 
were  of  the  efficacy  of  his  acts  and  words. 

Then  he  crossed  Inez's  ears  with  that  shapely 
thumb,  and  murmured: 

"  Through  this  holy  unction,  and  His  most  ten- 
der mercy,  may  the  Lord  pardon  thee  whatso- 
ever sins  thou  hast  committed  by  hearing.  .  .  . 
Amen!" 

And  thus  with  her  nose  and  her  mouth;  till  he 
came  to  her  hands,  and  then  to  her  feet.  That  the 

278 


THE   CEREMONY 


symbolism  of  forgiveness  should  be  extended  to  the 
feet  surprised  and  impressed  me.  I  remember  the 
pale,  exposed  feet  of  Inez,  like  the  feet  of  a  mar- 
tyr  

Then  the  priest  took  the  cross,  as  one  might  take 
a  fragile  jewel,  and  offered  it  to  the  pardoned  lips 
of  Inez,  who  kissed  it  with  a  rapturous  fervor,  and 
sighed  content.  In  her  life  this  moment  was  the 
culmination  of  the  spectacular.  I  could  feel  in  my 
heart  the  supremacy  of  its  effect  on  her. 

Later,  Marion  rose  from  her  knees.  The  priest, 
reserved  and  taciturn,  but  with  an  unexceptionable 
dignified  correctness,  made  his  preparations  for  de- 
parture, and  departed.  Marion  turned  on  the  elec- 
tric light,  and,  extinguishing  the  candles,  put  them 
away;  then  she  rearranged  the  bed,  and  restored 
the  customary  array  to  the  dressing  table;  lastly, 
she  folded  up  the  white  napkin.  After  a  short  in- 
terval, Mary  and  the  newly  arrived  nurse  came  into 
the  bedroom.  Mary  hovered  round  the  bed,  sym- 
pathizing with  Inez's  sufferings,  and  murmuring 
remarks  to  the  prim  nurse.  She  made  no  allusion 
to  the  ceremony  which  had  just  concluded,  nor 
was  it  ever  mentioned  between  us. 

"  Now,  Morrice!  "  she  said  to  me  warningly. 

With  her  help  I  retired.  Inez  was  still  being 
shaken  by  the  hiccough. 

279 


THE   GLIMPSE 


The  doctor  had  considered  that  during  the  day 
her  case  had  become  desperate.  He  did  not  ex- 
pect her  to  pass  the  night.  It  was  not,  however, 
till  the  fifth  day  that,  after  a  prolonged  period  of 
weakness  resembling  coma,  she  expired. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

DISTURBANCE 

SHE  expired  in  the  forenoon.  It  was  Wednes- 
day. I  sat  afterwards  in  the  study,  dressed, 
near  my  temporary  bed.  I  -had  been  enfeebled  on 
the  Sunday,  the  day  following  the  visit  of  the  priest, 
but  thence  onward  I  had  made  rapid  progress,  be- 
ing constitutionally  a  man  of  very  short  convales- 
cences. As  I  sat  in  the  study,  alone,  I  did  not 
think  of  her  as  dead.  I  had  requested  Mary  to 
have  the  deserted  body  completely  covered  with  a 
sheet  as  soon  as  the  nurse  had  made  it  ready  for 
the  shroud.  I  wished  that  Inez  should  not  be  dis- 
tressed by  the  obscene  sight  of  that  which  she  had 
left,  nor  by  the  spectacle  of  her  friends  wasting 
upon  it  their  lamentations.  I  also  requested  that 
silence  and  repose  should  be  maintained  in  the  flat. 
I  chose  the  study  for  my  solitude  because  the 
study  had  been  the  scene  of  my  first  experiences 
during  the  night  of  my  adventure.  It  was  in  the 
study  that  the  gross  world  had  dissolved  for  me. 
As  I  sat  in  my  armchair  I  could  gaze  at  a  certain 

281 


THE  GLIMPSE 


red  vase,  remembering  the  moment  when  that  vase, 
sole  relic  of  the  gross  world,  had  jutted  up  alone 
in  a  sea  of  multicolored  radiance.  As  I  sat  in  my 
armchair  I  was  in  the  exact  spot  where  the  radiant 
form  of  Marion  had  reclined  while  emitting  the 
chromatic  shapes  of  thought,  the  spot  which  it 
had  quitted  on  an  amorous  errand  while  Marion 
dreamed,  the  spot  to  which  it  had  been  recalled 
so  brusquely  by  the  jar  of  the  open  window 
in  the  night  breeze.  The  study  was,  as  it  were, 
sacred  to  me,  set  apart  from  the  other  rooms 
of  the  flat.  It  was  in  the  study  that  I  had  gone 
through  the  experience  of  being  cast  out  from 
humanity. 

Inez  might  be  there.  Assuredly  she  was  some- 
where near.  When  they  came  to  tell  me  that  she 
had  passed  away  I  went  for  a  moment  to  her  body, 
and  after  being  satisfied  that  she  had  indeed  passed 
away,  I  glanced  about  and  behind  me,  as  though  I 
might  discover  her  watching  us.  But  I  had  not  re- 
mained. In  the  study,  gazing  at  the  vase,  or  at 
the  window  where  I  had  been  captive,  I  was  not 
afraid.  I  had  nothing  whatever  of  the  common  fear 
of  the  disembodied.  But  I  was  full  of  curiosity, 
anxiety,  and  solicitude.  And  I  was  self-conscious. 
She  might  be — she  probably  was — looking  at  me 
from  some  corner,  appealing  to  me  in  vain  for  as- 

282 


DISTURBANCE 


sistance  and  sympathy.  She  was  criticising  and 
judging  me.  She  was  being  astounded  at  my  blind- 
ness in  not  perceiving  her.  She  was  thrilled  with 
a  supreme  alarm. 

I  was  not  aware  of  any  personal  grief.  I  did  not 
think  of  her  as  dead.  How  should  I  think  of  her  as 
dead  when  I  could  almost  feel  her  glance  upon  me? 
But  I  was  grieved  for  her.  The  acuteness  of  my 
sympathy  was  painful  to  me.  I  wished  fervently  to 
be  able  to  reassure  her  amid  the  awful  disurbance 
of  her  new  sensations.  Never  in  the  gross  world 
had  she  stood  in  such  need  of  sympathy.  I  strained 
my  eyes  to  see  her.  I  thought  that  perhaps  by  vir- 
tue of  intensity  of  volition  I  might,  having  regard 
to  my  knowledge,  glimpse  her,  were  it  faintly,  were 
it  for  an  instant.  But  no!  Then  I  recalled  the 
mysterious  gaseous  counterpart  which  I  had  seen 
floating  above  my  own  bed  on  the  night  of  my 
adventure.  I  did  not  want  to  return  to  the  bed- 
room, but  I  did  return  to  the  bedroom,  tiptoeing  in 
my  slippers.  I  approached  her  bed  and  explored 
the  spaces  above  it  for  a  trace  of  a  pale  form.  But 
I  could  detect  nothing.  We  in  the  gross  envelope 
were  cut  off  from  such  apparitions. 

Like  a  thief  fleeing  I  went  back  to  the  study  and 
sat  down  again  in  the  armchair.  Not  a  sound  in 
the  flat!  There  was  no  sun  on  this  window,  which 
19  283 


THE    GLIMPSE 


faced  the  west,  but  I  could  see  the  sunshine  playing 
on  the  restless  elm  trees.  She  had  died  in  the  day- 
time. Would  that  affect  her?  She  had  brought 
about  her  own  departure  by  a  willful  act.  Would 
that  affect  her?  I  had  fancied  that  I  knew  every- 
thing about  the  state  in  which  she  was.  But  how 
little  I  knew!  Now,  surely,  the  radiant  world  was 
breaking  in  for  her  upon  the  gross.  Now,  surely, 
the  solid  was  melting  for  her,  and  two  universes 
were  merged  in  dire  confusion.  And  if  she  was 
looking  at  me,  what  she  saw  was  not  a  man  of  flesh 
and  blood,  clothed,  wearing  slippers,  but  a  radiant 
form  pulsating  in  a  sea  of  radiance.  I  had  so  seen 
Marion,  and  so  Inez  would  see  me.  Marion,  ob- 
sessed by  a  secret  passion,  had  not  concerned  her- 
self with  me.  Though  I  had  but  just  departed, 
though  the  flat  was  full  of  the  stir  of  my  departure, 
in  her  heart  she  had  been  busy  with  nothing  but 
her  love.  The  shapes  of  her  thought  had  not  once 
been  directed  upon  me  as  she  sat  waking  or  dream- 
ing in  the  armchair.  She  had  done  naught  for  my 
solitude. 

I  set  myself  to  think  of  Inez,  to  think  of  her  in 
steady  sympathy.  I  emphasized  my  ardent  wishes 
for  her  safe  passage  across  the  difficult  frontiers  of 
this  gross  world.  I  pictured  strongly  her  radiance, 
and  my  own,  whipping  my  imagination  to  its  full 

284 


DISTURBANCE 


power,  and  strove  to  shed  upon  her  a  constant 
stream  of  shapes  that  should  convince  her  of  my 
understanding  sympathy,  and  cheer  her  forward. 
I  came  nigh  to  seeing  her  and  the  procession  of  my 
thoughts  from  me  to  her.  The  whole  force  of  my 
being  was  concentrated  in  this  effort  to  be  of  serv- 
ice to  her. 

The  distant  sound  of  the  telephone  bell  cut 
through  my  mood  like  a  shaft.  I  fought  against  it, 
withdrawing  more  and  more  within  myself  so  as 
to  think  powerfully.  But  after  a  time  the  door  of 
the  study  opened  from  the  drawing-room  and  Mary 
entered,  and  shattered  my  mood  to  pieces.  She 
had  scarcely  left  us  for  five  days.  She  was  calm  but 
tearful. 

"  Morrice,"  she  said,  "  I've  just  telephoned  to 
the  doctor.  He  says  he'll  come  along  at  once.  I 
asked  him  about  the  inquest,  and  he  says  that  he'll 
do  what's  necessary." 

The  inquest!  I  was  forgetting  that  Inez  had 
committed  suicide.  It  was  so  long  since  the  act 
itself  that  her  death  seemed  to  be  the  result  of  a 
natural  illness.  An  inquest — on  the  body!  The 
body!  I  was  being  dragged  back  to  that  offensive 
and  utterly  unimportant  remnant.  I  saw  the  in- 
quest and  the  funeral  as  an  endless  vista  of  desola- 
tion cutting  me  off  from  Inez  herself. 

285 


THE    GLIMPSE 


''  There  are  several  things  to  be  done,"  said 
Mary. 

"What?" 

"Well,"  she  said.  "Several.  Letters  to  be 
written,  and —  But  if  you'll  leave  everything  to 
me,  I'll  be  responsible.  You're  certainly  not  fit  to 
put  yourself  about." 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  am." 

"  Well,"  she  replied  caustically,  "  we  shall  see 
what  the  doctor  says  about  that." 

"  What  about  Harold?  "  I  asked. 

Harold  was  Inez's  sole  surviving  brother,  almost 
her  one  relative.  Mary  had  written  to  him  on  the 
Saturday,  but  he  had  left  his  home  on  Monday 
morning  before  the  first  postal  delivery,  and  noth- 
ing had  been  heard  from  him.  He  was  a  commer- 
cial traveler,  and  apparently  the  letter  had  been 
following  him  on  a  journey  in  the  north. 

"  I  really  don't  know  what  to  do,"  said  Mary, 
"  unless  I  take  a  cab  and  go  down  to  his  place  of 
business  and  find  out  something  definite.  It's  very 
annoying." 

"  No  news  of  Johnnie  yet,  I  suppose?  " 

She  flushed  slightly,  as  always  at  the  mention  of 
Hulse's  name.  She  had  telephoned  to  him  several 
times  during  the  illness,  but  he  had  strangely  gone 
to  Paris  and  left  no  address.  Hulse  was  heavily  on 

286 


DISTURBANCE 


my  mind.  One  day  Hulse  and  I  would  have  to 
meet. 

"  No!  Nothing!  I  can  telephone  again  to  ask 
if  he's  returned,  if  you  like." 

"  Oh!  "  I  said.  "  Do  exactly  as  you  think  best." 
1  Then  I'm  to  see  to  everything?  ...  I  can  al- 
ways ask  you  if  I  want  to  know  anything." 

I  nodded.  I  ought  to  have  felt  very  grateful  to 
her.  To  help  me  she  was  entirely  neglecting  her 
child,  who  was  far  more  important  to  her  than  a 
brother.  But  I  did  not  feel  grateful.  I  did  not  feel 
anything  except  that  I  must  be  alone  and  in  tran- 
quillity to  think  of  Inez. 

Mary  closed  the  door.  Invaluable  woman! 
Priceless  in  an  emergency!  Absolutely  reliable,  ab- 
solutely capable!  And  genuinely  sympathetic  in 
her  calm,  dry  way.  .  .  .  Tears  in  her  eyes  for  Inez 
and  for  me!  But  where  did  she  suppose  Inez  was? 

I  tried  eagerly  to  repair  the  breach  of  the  inter- 
ruption. But  in  a  few  moments  the  door  opened 
again  and  Mary  reappeared,  shut  the  door,  and  ad- 
vanced into  the  room. 

"  He's  come — her  brother!  "  she  said  in  a  low 
voice.  "  Of  course  you'll  have  to  see  him." 

She  spoke  thus  of  him  as  a  stranger,  because  he 
was  effectively  a  stranger  to  us.  Mary  herself,  in- 
deed, had  never  before  set  eyes  on  him.  He  was  a 

287 " 


THE   GLIMPSE 


man  of  about  forty-five,  a  widower,  with  no  interest 
in  any  art,  and  nothing  whatever  in  common  with 
either  Inez  or  myself.  I  doubt  if  Inez  and  he  had 
met  on  the  average  oftener  than  once  a  year  since 
our  marriage.  I  had  seen  him  altogether  perhaps 
half  a  dozen  times.  He  had  made  no  impression 
upon  me  at  all.  A  silent  being — silent  because 
without  ideas,  without  personality.  A  man  seem- 
ingly bereft  of  ambition,  and  whose  sole  desire  was 
to  be  left  in  peace  in  the  groove  which  habit  had 
formed.  A  solitary!  He  had  the  solitude  of  the 
commercial  traveler  from  Monday  to  Friday,  and 
the  solitude  of  the  unsociable,  childless  widower  in 
a  small  suburban  house  on  Saturday  and  Sunday. 

"  Have  you  told  him?  "  I  asked  Mary. 

"*'  Yes.  I  told  him  everything  as  quickly  as  I 
could,"  said  she. 

"  It  won't  do  for  me  to  keep  him  waiting,"  I 
murmured. 

"  No,"  said  Mary.  "  But,  of  course,  he  under- 
stands you're  an  invalid." 

I  rose  and  went  into  the  drawing-room,  where 
Mary  left  me  with  him.  He  wrung  my  hand  hys- 
terically. I  asked  him  to  sit  down.  He  was  nearly 
as  tall  as  myself,  but  thin,  with  a  thin  face,  grayish 
hair,  and  shining  eyes.  He  sat  down  and  then  burst 
into  tears^  sobbing  loudly.  I  could  say  nothing. 

288 


DISTURBANCE 


Then,  between  his  sobs,  he  began  to  tell  me  how, 
owing  to  an  error  of  his  housekeeper,  Mary's 
warning  letter  had  not  reached  him  till  the  pre- 
vious evening.  He  did  not  precisely  blame  us  for 
not  having  made  further  efforts  to  communicate 
with  him,  but  I  could  see  the  trend  of  his  idea.  I 
reminded  him  that  I  had  been  ill,  and  he  cried: 

"  O!    I  know!    I  know  it  couldn't  be  helped." 

Then  there  was  a  silence  between  us. 

"  I'd  have  given  anything  to  see  her  again  before 
she  died,"  he  exclaimed. 

"  She  was  practically  unconscious  for  several 
days,"  I  said. 

"  Anything!  "  he  repeated,  not  heeding  me. 

"  It's  a  most  astounding  story!  "  he  said,  wiping 
his  eyes — not  furtively,  but  boldly,  as  though  it  was 
customary  for  a  man  to  weep  and  sob  in  grief. 

"  Yes." 

The  astoundingness  of  the  episode  had  shaken 
him  violently  out  of  his  groove.  The  event  had  in- 
vested him  with  a  certain  importance  in  his  own  es- 
timation. He  was  the  only  relative  of  this  beauti- 
ful woman  who  at  the  age  of  little  over  thirty  had 
taken  poison  under  the  misapprehension  that  her 
husband  was  dead. 

"  There  never  was  such  a  thing  heard  of  in  our 
family  before,"  he  said. 

289 


THE   GLIMPSE 


His  sense  of  the  family  was  aroused.  He  repre- 
sented the  family;  he  was  the  family;  and  the  fam- 
ily somehow  owned  Inez.  I  was  merely  a  person 
who  had  temporarily  taken  Inez  away  from  her 
family. 

"  Morrice!  "  he  said.    "  I  should  like  to  see  her." 

He  employed  my  Christian  name  awkwardly,  as 
one  not  accustomed  to  use  it,  and  scarcely  even 
convinced  of  his  right  to  use  it.  He  was  afraid  of. 
me,  chiefly,  I  think,  because  he  occasionally  saw 
my  name  in  newspapers. 

I  led  him  to  the  bedroom.  I  could  not  depute 
this  office  to  another.  He  imposed  upon  me  his 
own  standard  and  code  of  propriety.  We  stood  to- 
gether staring  at  the  sheet  beneath  which  the  form 
of  Inez's  body  was  vaguely  discernible.  He  drew 
the  sheet  partly  away  and  gazed  at  the  face,  and 
sobbed  painfully. 

"  Poor  girl!  "  he  muttered.  "  We  were  the  last 
of  our  family;  and  now  I'm  alone!  If  anybody  had 
told  me  that  one  of  our  family  would  ever  commit 
suicide — !  Where  did  she  do  it,  Morrice?  " 

He  continued  to  gaze  in  affliction  at  the  disfig- 
ured face  as  though  he  were  gazing  at  Inez  her- 
self. I  had  to  show  him  the  bathroom,  and  the 
large  closet  between  the  bathroom  and  the  bed- 
room from  a  shelf  in  which  Inez  had  taken  the  bot- 

290 


DISTURBANCE 


tie  of  oxalic  acid.  I  had  to  reconstitute  the  scene 
for  him  as  well  as  I  could.  He  was  avid  of  de- 
tails. 

He  burst  out  suddenly,  his  hysteric  eyes  glint- 
ing: 

"  How  can  you  be  sure  it  wasn't  a  mistake?  " 

"A  mistake?" 

"  Yes.  How  can  you  be  sure  she  didn't  mistake 
the  oxalic  acid  for  something  else?  " 

He  clung  to  this  notion,  arguing  for  it  with  a 
certain  ingenuity.  There  was  a  bottle  of  lauda- 
num on  the  shelf,  and  an  old  traveling  flask  con- 
taining a  few  drops  of  brandy.  She  would  of  course 
be  in  a  state  of  extreme  agitation,  perhaps  almost 
beside  herself.  Supposing  she  had  meant  only  to 
swallow  a  few  drops  of  laudanum  to  help  her  to 
sleep,  for  instance !  And  there  was  the  brandy,  too ! 
Had  she  definitely  told  me  or  Mary  or  the  doctor 
that  she  had  intended  suicide?  No,  she  had  not.  It 
was  merely  understood.  ...  He  examined  every- 
thing minutely,  then  returned  to  'the  corpse,  wept 
again,  and  covered  it  up.  Mary  came  in,  to  extri- 
cate me,  and  he  recommenced  his  argument  pas- 
sionately. 

He  stayed  for  tea,  drinking  a  lot  of  tea  but  eat- 
ing nothing.  It  was  during  tea  that  he  heard  about 
the  visit  of  the  priest.  Evidently  he  regretted 

291 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Inez's  Catholicism,  but  he  had  forgotten  it.  The 
priest  would  know  whether  Inez  had  meant  to  kill 
herself.  He  would  go  and  see  the  priest.  Neither 
Mary  nor  I  knew  where  the  priest  lived.  But 
Marion  knew;  Marion  had  already,  it  appeared, 
shown  curiosity  as  to  the  funeral  service.  Harold 
departed.  His  last  words  were:  "  It's  a  very  strange 
thing  to  me,  any  member  of  our  family  committing 
suicide!  " 

Then  came  the  doctor,  and  instantly  after  him 
the  coroner's  officer,  with  whom  he  had  already 
been  in  communication — a  policeman.  A  policeman 
in  my  home!  I  had  to  see  him.  It  was  always  a 
question  of  the  corpse,  the  corpse.  Nothing  but 
the  corpse!  I  learned  that  by  a  fortunate  chance 
the  inquest  could  take  place  on  the  morrow.  The 
corpse  would  have  to  be  removed  to  the  mortuary. 
At  night!  These  things  were  generally  done  after 
dark.  People  preferred  it.  Neighbors  preferred 
it.  ...  Endless,  endless  discussions,  plannings! 
When  the  policeman,  helmet  in  hand,  had  gone, 
and  the  doctor  was  going,  I  called  the  doctor  aside, 
away  from  Mary.  An  unreasonable  thought  had 
flicked  in  my  brain. 

"  You  are  sure  she  is  dead?  "  I  asked  him.  "  Be- 
cause  " 

"  Quite/'  he  replied,  and  looked  at  me. 
292 


DISTURBANCE 


He  understood. 

More  men  arrived.  They  were  in  and  out  con- 
stantly; men  accustomed  to  death.  A  coffin!  And 
when  darkness  had  fallen  the  coffin  went  down 
again.  We  saw  no  more  of  Harold  that  evening. 

Mary  went  home  for  the  night.  I  was  alone. 
Where  was  Inez,  then?  I  endeavored  to  resume 
command  of  my  faculties,  but  I  could  not.  In  spite 
of  Mary's  efforts  to  shield  me  from  the  situation, 
the  corpse  had  dispossessed  Inez  in  my  mind  and 
would  not  be  ousted.  I  slept,  and  could  not  even 
dream  of  Inez. 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

TO   THE   GRAVE 

1WENT  to  the  inquest.  The  doctor  would  have 
signed  a  certificate  that  I  was  not  in  a  fit  condi- 
tion to  go — he  advised  me  not  to  go — but  I  went. 
I  felt  that  I  was  bound  to  go ;  it  was  a  morbid  desire 
in  me.  As  I  passed  out  through  the  hall  of  the 
Mansions  into  the  Square  I  realized  that  the  Man- 
sions and  the  Square  were  agog  about  me,  that  I 
was  a  figure  of  attraction.  I  was  the  man  upon 
whose  eyes  the  coins  had  been  put  and  who  had  come 
to  life  again  only  to  find  that  his  wife  had  killed 
herself  from  grief.  It  was  a  high  sensation  for  the 
Mansions.  The  demeanor  of  the  janitor  in  the  porch 
was  quite  changed;  superciliousness  no  longer 
showed  through  the  thin  mask  of  the  obsequious. 
He  summoned  a  taxicab  with  enthusiasm,  and 
seemed  to  wish  to  lift  me  into  it.  And  as  the  driver 
of  the  taxicab  stared  at  my  black,  and  stared  still 
harder  when  I  gave  him  the  address,  I  thought  that 
he,  too,  divined  how  sensational  I  was. 

294 


TO    THE    GRAVE 


The  shapeless  and  shabby  room — in  some  impos- 
sible street — which  served  as  coroner's  court,  was 
crowded  and  stinking.  My  policeman  was  there, 
bareheaded,  officious,  and  busy  whispering  out  his 
authority  beneath  the  cold,  clear  remarks  of  the  cor- 
oner to  the  jury.  The  coroner  sat  on  a  plain  chair 
at  a  plain  table — a  man,  obviously,  in  whom  con- 
scientiousness strove  successfully  against  a  dislike 
of  being  habitually  overworked.  You  could  see  and 
hear  at  once  that  he  lived  always  in  haste,  yet  would 
leave  nothing  undone  that  ought  to  be  done.  The 
jury,  every  one  in  an  attitude  of  self-consciousness, 
blinked  in  a  pew.  There  were  thirteen  of  them,  ap- 
parently more  or  less  prospering  dealers  in  small 
quantities  of  small  commodities.  An  honest  lot !  I 
overheard  that  they  had  viewed  the  bodies.  I  won- 
dered why  just  they  should  have  been  chosen  by 
destiny  to  stare  at  the  discarded  envelope  of  Inez.  I 
wondered  why  the  discarded  envelope  of  Inez  should 
have  been  delivered  over  to  their  inquisitive  and  in- 
different eyes.  I  thought  how  afflictingly  cumbrous 
was  the  machinery  by  which  society  protects  itself. 
I  tried  to  think  of  Inez,  to  dispatch  to  her  some  mes- 
sage ;  but  I  could  not,  in  that  assemblage  intent  upon 
corpses ;  the  mortuary — the  museum  of  corpses — was 
next  door.  All  the  faces  of  the  witnesses  and  the 
huddled  spectators  were  under  the  sinister  enchant- 

295 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ment  The  reporters,  idle  for  the  moment  and  open- 
ly bored  by  the  remarks  of  the  coroner,  alone  were 
exempt  from  it. 

I  found  myself  wedged  in  a  group  of  gloomy 
women  who  seemed  to  be  blind  to  the  advantages 
of  personal  cleanliness,  or  who  had  tried  to  achieve 
it  and  failed.  I  remembered  that  if  Inez  were  there 
she  would  see  us  all  radiant,  and  that  my  punctilious 
frock  coat  would  be  no  more  to  her  than  the  foul 
shawls  of  these  women.  But  I  could  not  realize  it ; 
I  could  not.  The  obsession  of  flesh — and  decaying 
flesh — had  been  put  upon  me,  and  would  not  be 
shaken  off. 

A  neatly  dressed  lady  in  spectacles  motioned  to 
me.  It  was  Marion,  apart  for  once  from  her  apron 
and  cap.  I  had  not  recognized  her.  She  was  with 
the  cook.  The  coroner's  officer  had  intimated  that 
it  would  be  well  for  both  of  them  to  attend.  Marion 
wished  to  draw  my  attention  to  Harold,  who  was 
gesticulating  to  me  from  the  back  of  the  court.  We 
had  not  seen  Harold  since  the  previous  afternoon. 
I  made  my  way  to  him,  and  he  began  to  explain 
how  he  had  arrived  at  the  Mansions  immediately 
after  I  had  left.  He  was  in  a  state  of  considerable 
agitation.  The  coroner's  officer  called  out  "  silence." 
"  I  must  speak  to  you,"  said  Harold.  We  went  into 
the  street.  It  was  the  priest  that  was  on  his  mind. 

296 


TO   THE   GRAVE 


He  had  had  great  difficulty  in  seeing  the  priest,  had 
not  indeed  seen  him  until  that  morning.  The  priest 
had  declined  to  tell  him  anything  that  Inez  had  said 
in  confession,  and  was  not  to  be  moved  by  the  argu- 
ment that  Harold  was  the  head  of  Inez's  family. 
Harold  was  outraged,  to  the  point  of  regarding  the 
whole  organization  of  Catholicism  in  England  as 
a  conspiracy  against  English  family  life.  He  asked 
why  the  priest  had  not  been  subpoenaed  to  the  in- 
quest, and  kept  repeating  that  the  priest  ought  to 
be  compelled  to  speak,  and  referring  to  the  power  of 
the  law.  In  his  deep  mourning  he  was  an  incarnate 
protest  against  the  invasion  of  his  family  by  Cath- 
olicism. Then  the  doctor  appeared  along  the  pave- 
ment, and  with  his  help  I  managed  to  convince  my 
brother-in-law  that  the  theory  of  an  accident  was 
perfectly  untenable ;  at  any  rate  Harold  affected  con- 
viction. I  could  see  that  he  was  secretly  accusing 
me  of  disloyalty  to  the  memory  of  Inez  in  opposing 
the  theory  of  an  accident.  I  could  read  in  his  face 
his  belief  that  he  alone  really  cherished  the  memory 
of  Inez. 

We  were  summoned  by  an  excited  voice  into  the 
court.  Already  our  case  had  been  reached.  The 
coroner  appeared  to  be  entirely  familiar  with  it.  His 
tone  had  somewhat  changed.  The  unusualness  of 
the  circumstances  had  produced  its  effect  even  on 

297 


THE   GLIMPSE 


him.  In  vain  he  sought  to  maintain  his  air  of  de- 
tachment and  use.  Moreover  he  disclosed  that  he 
was  familiar  with  my  name;  he  uttered  my  name 
and  calling  with  an  emphasis  of  respect.  The  doctor 
gave  his  evidence ;  the  cook  gave  hers ;  Marion  was 
not  asked  to  testify;  I  gave  my  evidence.  The  re- 
porters were  as  busy  as  they  could  be.  The  jury  and 
the  spectators  were  gapingly  intent,  and  sorry,  when 
the  evidence  proved  to  be  so  short.  With  all  its 
unusualness,  the  case  was  extraordinarily  simple. 
The  coroner  began  his  address  to  the  jury  with  an 
expression  of  sympathy  with  the  husband.  And  then 
Harold  jumped  up  with  a  hysterical,  "  Mr.  Coroner, 
I  beg  to  demand — "  And  instantly  the  court 
thrilled.  "  Who  are  you  ? "  the  coroner  asked, 
suavely,  noticing,  with  his  flair,  the  man's  condi- 
tion. "  I  am  the  sole  remaining  representative  of 
the  deceased's  family."  The  accident  theory  was 
poured  out,  pell-mell,  at  white  heat,  and  the  priest 
did  not  escape.  At  first  I  was  shocked,  and  angry. 
But  the  poor  fellow  could  not  help  the  explosion. 
No  argument  could  convince  his  emotion.  The 
unique  event  of  his  silent  and  monotonous  existence 
had  occurred,  arousing  swiftly  his  dormant  passion 
for  the  repute  of  his  family.  An  ideal  blazed  within 
him.  In  his  brief  madness  he  was  heroic.  Impos- 
sible not  to  respect  his  fervor !  He  would  fain  reduce 

298 


TO    THE    GRAVE 


the  grandiose  and  fatal  act  of  Inez  to  the  level  of 
a  paltry  mishap.  He  lacked  imagination!  .  .  . 
And  yet  had  he  not  imagination,  narrow  but 
intense? 

The  sardonic  curl  of  the  doctor's  lip,  during 
Harold's  painful  rhapsody,  was  surpassingly  cruel. 

The  coroner  summed  up  Harold  infallibly  and 
immediately.  He  soothed  him,  with  firm  tact,  flat- 
tering him  slightly  by  a  few  questions,  and  then 
turned  again  to  the  jury.  In  five  minutes  the  verdict 
was  given.  I  wanted  to  fly.  But  the  coroner's  of- 
ficer had  me  in  his  grasp.  The  doctor  went;  the 
servants  went;  two  reporters  went;  half  the  specta- 
tors went;  I,  listening  to  other  cases,  had  to  remain 
for  the  fulfillment  of  formalities,  and  Harold  stayed 
with  me.  At  last,  I  received  the  paper  which  au- 
thorized me  to  bury  out  of  sight  that  which  Inez 
had  abandoned.  I  left  the  mean  and  undignified 
court  and  the  overworked  coroner,  and  breathed 
the  fine  air  of  the  street.  I  thought  with  relief  that 
all  was  ovef  then.  But  Harold,  sticking  to  my  side, 
began  to  discuss  the  funeral.  He  was  intensely  in- 
terested in  the  details  of  the  funeral.  I  asked  him 
to  come  home  with  me  in  my  cab ;  I  could  do  no  less. 
Before  we  reached  the  Mansions  we  saw  the  placard 
of  an  evening  paper :  "  West  End  Suicide.  Strange 
Story.  Scene  at  Inquest."  And  in  the  Square  it- 
20  299 


THE   GLIMPSE 


self  we  saw  another  placard :  "  Inquest  on  a  well- 
known  lady  in  the  West  End."  Astounding  that  I 
should  feel  momentarily  flattered  because  Inez,  be- 
ing my  wife,  was  therefore  "  well  known."  Yet  I 
did.  Harold,  while  inveighing  against  the  prying 
sensationalism  of  the  press,  was  secretly  delighted  by 
all  this  publicity. 

The  priest  was  in  the  hall  of  the  Mansions,  wait- 
ing to  ascend  in  the  lift.  The  encounter  between 
him  and  Harold  was  extremely  distressing  for  me; 
not  because  it  was  violent — the  priest  had  an  ample 
fund  of  diplomacy — but  because  I  felt  responsible  for 
Harold's  behavior.  I  could  not  disown  him  as  a 
brother-in-law.  The  priest  had  come  to  see  me ;  but 
the  hazard  which  caused  him  to  see  Harold  in  seeing 
me  was  positively  malign.  The  presence  of  the  lift 
boy  imposed  silence  in  the  lift.  At  my  door,  Marion, 
aproned  and  capped  as  though  she  had  never  left 
the  flat,  received  us  with  ceremony.  I  took  the  vis- 
itors to  my  study.  The  priest  said  that  he  wished 
to  see  me  alone.  Harold  objected  that,  as  the 
priest's  visit  could  have  only  one  purpose,  he  had  a 
right  to  be  present  at  the  interview.  I  was  obliged 
to  support  the  man.  The  priest  had  come  to  inquire 
as  to  the  funeral;  he  assumed  naturally  that  I  should 
bury  my  wife  according  to  the  ordinances  of  her  re- 
ligion. Harold  resented  the  interment  of  a  member 

300 


TO   THE   GRAVE 


of  his  family  with  Roman  rites.  I  could  not  tell 
either  of  them  that  I  did  not  expect  to  bury  Inez. 
I  could  not  tell  them  that  they  might  bury  the  resi- 
due which  she  had  quitted  how  they  chose,  for 
aught  I  cared.  I  wondered  if  she  was  still  in  the 
study,  watching  our  radiant  forms. 

Mary  entered.  She  had  heard  some  uproar  of 
voices  and  meant  to  intervene  for  my  bodily  health. 
She  candidly  detested  Harold.  She  could  not  dis- 
cern the  idealist  in  him.  She  said  that  as  Inez  had 
died  a  Roman  Catholic,  as  a  Roman  Catholic  she 
ought  to  be  buried,  unless  I  preferred  a  purely  civil 
funeral.  It  would  have  been  difficult  to  decide 
whether  Harold  or  the  priest  was  the  more  finely 
lashed  by  her  tone.  I  told  the  priest  that  he  might 
preside  at  the  funeral.  Harold  was  thunderstruck. 
He  departed,  pale  with  shame  and  ire,  and  saying 
loudly  that  he  should  not  attend  the  funeral.  When 
he  was  gone  the  priest  suitably  regretted  the  inci- 
dent. But  in  the  evening,  Harold  returned,  repent- 
ant, ready  to  abase  himself  in  order  to  gain  some 
share  in  the  direction  of  the  funeral.  It  was  an  emo- 
tional experience  of  which  his  soul  refused  to  be 
deprived.  His  instinct  was  toward  magnificence  in 
the  funeral.  We  did  not  quarrel,  but  we  spent  to- 
gether an  evening  and  a  day  of  deplorable  tedium 
for  me.  He  fought  for  his  ideal  inch  by  inch,  and 

301 


THE   GLIMPSE 


the  ultimate  treaty  was  not  entirely  unfavorable  to 
his  valor.  In  the  execution  of  it  he  was  unimagi- 
nably active  and  urgent.  I  laughed  to  myself.  Yet 
I  sympathized  with  him.  The  tension  of  his  life  in 
those  brief  days  must  have  been  terrible,  an  awful 
and  dangerous  pleasure  to  him.  He  and  I  went  alone 
to  the  funeral.  At  the  chapel  of  the  cemetery  the 
priest  met  us,  all  blowing  in  the  July  breeze.  More 
formalities!  But  by  the  mere  efflux  of  time,  it 
seemed,  the  coffin  lowered  itself  into  the  hole  in  the 
ground.  And  Harold  gave  a  last  look  at  Inez.  It 
was  Inez  herself  that  Harold  had  seen  nailed  up  in 
the  coffin.  .  .  .  His  adieu  to  the  priest  was  a  master- 
piece of  icy  fire. 

"  Good-by  for  the  present/'  I  said  to  him  at  the 
gates,  and  hailed  a  cab. 

"  But  aren't  we  going  back  in  the  coach  ?  "  he 
murmured,  aghast. 

I  answered  as  gently  as  I  could : 

"  No,  my  dear  fellow." 

Later  in  the  afternoon  an  emissary  of  the  funeral 
furnishers  came  to  the  flat  to  inquire  if  everything 
had  been  done  to  my  satisfaction.  The  incident  of 
the  cab  had  apparently  caused  disquiet. 

"  I  suppose  you  haven't  got  the  account  with 
you  ?  "  I  asked  him. 

But  he  had,  by  a  fortunate  chance. 
302 


TO   THE   GRAVE 


I  wrote  a  check  and  paid  him,  and  myself  con- 
ducted him  to  the  door. 

The  incubus,  the  dead  weight,  of  that  which  Inez 
had  abandoned  rolled  off  me.  I  was  free  to  think 
of  her.  I  was  happy,  by  myself  in  my  study,  after 
Mary  had  gone  home  to  her  child. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI 

MARION 

AT  breakfast,  I  had  the  newspapers,  a  couple  of 
second-hand  catalogues  of  books,  and  a  few 
letters  of  condolence.  (Not  a  word  nor  a  sign  yet 
from  John  Hulse.)  I  read  the  letters,  noting  with 
detachment  the  difficulty  of  writing  a  letter  of  con- 
dolence well,  and  the  rareness  of  success  in  this  task. 
I  did  not  open  the  book  catalogues.  I  glanced  at  a 
newspaper,  page  by  page,  and  the  effect  was  just 
as  if  it  had  been  printed  in  one  of  those  foreign 
languages  which  once  I  had  learned  so  easily,  but 
of  which  now  I  had  no  knowledge.  Nothing  in  it 
made  an  impression  on  me,  not  even  a  title.  My 
mind  was  away,  wandering  at  its  pleasure,  heedless 
of  control. 

Could  my  friends  have  seen  me  there,  sitting  alone 
at  breakfast,  in  a  room  that  was  not  a  bachelor's 
room,  with  a  square  yard  of  empty  white  tablecloth 
stretching  beyond  the  rampart  of  breakfast  things, 
on  the  morning  after  my  wife's  funeral,  they  would 
have  pitied  me  for  a  pathetic  figure  worthy  of  com- 

304 


MARION 


passion.  Yet  I  was  not  unhappy.  I  may  have  been 
pensive,  but  I  was  not  unhappy.  Indeed,  I  was  con- 
scious of  a  certain  grave  happiness.  My  solitude 
did  not  render  me  disconsolate.  I  was  no  longer 
prostrated  by  the  shattering  of  the  amorous  enter- 
prise which  had  possessed  me  when  Inez  avowed 
her  relations  with  John  Hulse.  I  had  no  sensation 
whatever  of  despair.  And  on  the  surfaces  of  my 
mind  I  had  many  pleasurable  sensations.  The 
splendid  weather  pleased  me.  The  beauty  and  order 
and  silence  of  the  room  pleased  me.  The  geomet- 
rically regular  creases  in  the  damask  tablecloth 
pleased  me.  The  food  pleased  me.  I  was  gladdened 
by  the  sure  increase  of  strength  in  my  body,  the  re- 
turn of  physical  power.  That  body  had  once  seemed 
horribly  gross,  heavy,  and  unresponsive  to  me. 
But,  though  I  regretted  lost  freedoms,  I  did  not 
feel  imprisoned  in  my  body.  And  I  wondered,  not 
at  its  incapacity,  but  at  its  power  and  skill. 

I  did  not  mourn  for  Inez.  The  death  of  Inez 
caused  me  no  sorrow,  neither  joy.  The  drama  of  her 
life,  and  the  swift  circumstances  of  her  departure, 
seemed  to  me  to  be  fine.  All  our  lives  had  been 
wrong  with  a  fundamental  and  inclusive  blindness. 
But  hers,  viewed  complete,  had  the  harmonious  con- 
tours and  the  homogeneity  of  a  work  of  art.  It  had 
been  splendid  in  its  blindness,  in  the  violence  of  its 

305 


THE    GLIMPSE 


intensity  throughout,  in  its  abandonment  to  instinct. 
Her  secret  revolt  during  the  years  of  genteel  poverty 
had  a  quality  of  continuous  hidden  violence  that  was 
heroic  for  me.  She  had  lived  for  the  fallacy  of  de- 
sire, but  she  had  lived.  And  her  death  was  of  a 
piece  with  her  life.  All  the  desolating  tedium  of  her 
inquest  and  funeral  rounded  off  the  tale.  I  saw  that 
tedium  now  as  torture,  but  as  exquisite  torture.  I 
gave  myself  to  it  again,  in  retrospect,  as  to  a  sweet 
pain.  And  how  could  it  have  been  rendered  less  te- 
dious? It  could  not  have  been  rendered  less  tedious. 
The  appalling  and  exasperating  weariness  of  those 
formalities  was  inherent  in  the  ideals  of  the  very 
race  itself.  And  now  they  were  finished ;  they  were 
over.  That  which  Inez  had  quitted  was  definitely 
bestowed.  I  sympathized  with,  I  deeply  understood, 
every  person  with  whom  those  formalities  had  forced 
me  into  contact.  .  .  .  Three  days,  and  by  chafing  I 
had  lengthened  three  days  into  a  century!  Had  I 
to  live  them  again  I  would  yield  myself  to  them  ut- 
terly as  to  the  water  of  a  tide ;  I  would  live  in  them 
minute  by  minute,  with  divine  indifference. 

If  I  had  an  inquietude,  it  was  not  caused  by  Inez's 
death,  but  by  my  tingling  consciousness  of  the  fact 
that  she  was  alive.  Where  was  she  now  ?  Into- what 
errors  was  her  radiant  tissue  of  desire  leading  her  ? 
What  false  paradise  was  she  beginning  to  construct  ? 

306 


MARION 


Absurdly,  I  felt  that  if,  with  ray  experience,  I  could 
only  speak  to  her  for  an  instant,  I  might  save  her 
from  ages  of  futile  illusion !  All  I  could  do  was  to 
think  of  her,  to  think  toward  her.  This  I  did,  re- 
turning constantly  to  the  exercise  with  joy,  and 
picturing  in  my  fancy  the  thoughts  flying  to  her,  in- 
visible to  my  gross  vision,  but  substantial  to  hers! 
Warning,  succoring  thoughts  that  streamed  to  her! 
The  convinced  sense  of  this  seeming  miraculous 
one-sided  communication  made  me  happy.  Happi- 
ness must  have  been  apparent  in  my  eyes. 

So  that  when  Marion  came  into  the  room  I  tried 
to  modify  my  expression,  from  a  wish  not  to  wound 
or  puzzle  her.  It  was  as  if  I  had  been  ashamed  of 
my  feelings.  I  stared  at  the  paper,  frowning.  I  had 
not  rung  for  Marion.  It  appeared  that  she  had  en- 
tered in  order  to  satisfy  herself  that  I  was  not  in- 
capable of  putting  food  into  my  mouth  or  of  demand- 
ing anything  that  I  might  happen  to  need.  She 
went  behind  me  to  the  sideboard. 

"  Shall  I  get  your  cigarettes,  sir  ?  " 

"  No,  thanks,"  I  said.    "  You  can  clear  the  table." 

I  rose  and  glanced  out  of  the  window. 

When  she  had  removed  from  the  cloth  everything 
but  my  letters  and  papers,  she  suddenly  stopped  in 
her  work  and  turned  her  spectacles  upon  me. 

"  May  I  speak  to  you,  sir?  "    She  coughed. 
307 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"  Certainly,"  I  said.  "  What  is  it?  "  Her  defer- 
ence embarrassed  me. 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  if  you  could  tell  me 
whether  you  thought  of  keeping  on  your  present 
establishment  or  not,  sir  ...  now!  I  don't  like 
troubling  you,  but  I  thought  you  might  be  making 
your  arrangements.  I've  had  an  offer  of  a  very  good 
situation  at  Oxford,  and  I  thought  if  you  were 
thinking  of  giving  me  notice  soon —  If  you  un- 
derstand me,  sir  ...  Sorry  as  I  am  to  intrude." 

"  You  must  do  exactly  what  you  think  best  for 
yourself,  Marion,"  I  said  cordially.  I  avoided  the 
tone  of  a  master  to  a  servant,  and  spoke  with  easy 
good-humor,  partly  natural  and  partly  affected. 

"  It  isn't  that  I  wish  to  leave  here,  sir.  Not  at 
all !  "  she  replied  in  her  trained  voice  of  servility, 
apparently  not  perceiving  my  advance  toward  fel- 
lowship, or  ignoring  it.  "  But  I  was  thinking  it 
would  be  a  pity  to  refuse  this  place  at  Oxford  if — 

"  I  don't  want  to  change  anything  here,"  I  said. 

"  Thank  you,  sir.    May  I  tell  cook  the  same?  " 

"  Yes." 

There  was  no  sign  of  satisfaction  nor  of  dissatis- 
faction in  her  face  or  gestures.  She  proceeded  with 
her  operations.  I  sat  down  near  the  window. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  what  a  woman  like  you 
ought  to  do  ?  "  I  ventured. 

308 


MARION 


"  No,  sir." 

"  You  ought  to  get  married,  instead  of  remaining 
a  parlor  maid."  I  adopted  a  curt  genialty.  It  was 
a  clumsy  effort  to  break  down  the  barrier  separating 
us,  but  it  was  an  effort. 

"  I'm  not  one  to  marry,  sir,"  she  replied. 

On  the  surface  she  was  inflexible  in  her  servility. 
But  I  had  stirred  something  profound  in  her  that 
she  could  not  control.  She  flushed.  Her  voice  shook 
in  the  fervor  of  its  sincerity.  I  felt  that  I  ought  to 
apologize  to  her.  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  ask  this 
woman  to  sit  down  while  I  apologized,  and  that  at 
least  I  ought  to  rise.  I  guessed  now  what  had  hap- 
pened within  the  last  few  days.  The  object  of  her 
desire  must  have  promised  himself  to  the  other 
woman  who  more  purely  desired  him.  The  odd-job- 
man,  declining  a  parlor  maid,  had  betrothed  himself 
to  a  prison  wardress.  Fate  had  gone  against  Marion. 
A  tragedy  had  enacted  behind  those  spectacles  and 
her  romance  was  over.  She  had  loved  beneath  her, 
and  had  lost.  That  was  why  she  was  ready  to  leave 
London,  why  she  was,  perhaps,  anxious  to  leave  the 
Mansions.  I  understood  now  the  reason  of  her  tre- 
mendous preoccupation  with  the  man  on  the  night 
of  my  seizure — a  preoccupation  so  powerful  that  it 
had  wrenched  her  thoughts  completely  away  even 
from  my  supposed  death.  The  decisive  moment  had 

309 


THE    GLIMPSE 


been  approaching  then,  and  she  had  known  it.  She 
had  known  that  within  a  brief  space  the  man's  action 
would  confer  upon  her  either  bliss  or  misery.  It 
had  conferred  misery,  and,  henceforth,  "  she  was  not 
one  to  marry." 

And  all  that  she  hid  from  me  under  her  relentless 
servility. 

I  could  not  fight  successfully  against  her  servility. 
I  could  not  ask  her  to  sit.  I  could  not  rise.  I  could 
not  apologize.  But  I  could  regard  her  in  the  invio- 
lable field  of  my  own  mind  as  a  fellow  creature — 
not  academically,  but  really,  passionately.  I  could 
sympathize  with  her  in  the  abrupt  drama  of  her  ex- 
istence. My  understanding  thoughts  went  to  her. 

The  conception  of  all  Marion's  past  and  of  all  her 
future  awed  me  as  I  invited  it.  She,  too,  had  been 
where  I  had  been.  She,  too,  had  been  cut  off  from 
humanity!  She,  too,  had  made  the  discovery  of 
the  radiant  form!  She,  too,  had  constructed 
paradises  and  witnessed  their  dissolution !  She,  too, 
had  awakened  to  freedom,  and  seen  the  revealing  vi- 
sion in  the  uncolored  light.  She,  too,  had  watched 
universes  winking  in  and  out  until  the  tale  receded 
into  the  supremest  heights  of  coalescence,  where 
personal  memory  expired,  where  other  individuali- 
ties are  sloughed  and  new  ones  assumed.  Only  she 
did  not  know.  She  could  not  know,  at  this  stage  of 

310 


MARION 


her  eternity.  I  knew  solely  by  virtue  of  the  accident 
which  had  thrown  me  back  into  the  envelopes  which 
I  had  cast.  She  was  from  everlasting  to  everlasting. 
In  her  cap  and  apron  she  was  from  everlasting  to 
everlasting.  Our  exterior  relations  were  fantastically 
absurd,  with  her  servility  and  my  incurable  air  of  a 
master.  ...  A  divine  radiance  asking  permission  of 
its  fellow  to  speak!  Yes,  fantastically  absurd,  but 
scarcely  to  be  modified  save  within  the  secret  mind ! 
Within  the  secret  mind  I  raised  her  where  she  could 
not  mount.  I  dwelt  on  the  grandeur  of  her  long  his- 
tory; I  carried  her  on  from  where  she  stood  to  the 
sublime  threshold  of  her  ultimate  destiny  and  return 
to  perfection ;  until  I  was  steeped  in  an  ineffable  mar- 
veling. 

All  else  seemed  to  fail  in  importance  against  this 
secret  realization  of  what  I  was  and  what  others 
were,  and  of  the  unique  joy  of  sympathetic  compre- 
hension tending  toward  unity. 

Marion  primly  shut  the  door,  but  not  on  my 
thoughts,  which  followed  her  though  she  knew  it  not. 


CHAPTER    XXXVII 

EDITH 

1WENT  into  my  study  and  sat  down  at  the  desk. 
It  was  covered  with  letters  and  unopened  pack- 
ets in  disorder,  the  collection  of  such  a  week  as 
perhaps  not  many  human  beings  have  passed 
through.  Once  or  twice  during  the  previous  day 
or  two  I  had  written  briefly  at  the  desk — for  exam- 
ple, I  had  made  out  a  check  there  for  the  expenses 
of  the  funeral — but  I  had  scribbled  standing,  as  at 
a  passover,  as  a  man  will  when  his  existence  is  up- 
heaved, indifferently  lodging  my  paper  on  the  top- 
most layer  of  the  accumulation.  The  law  against 
deranging  the  contents  of  my  desk  had  retained  its 
sanction  throughout  all  those  events.  I  knew,  on 
that  morning  after  the  funeral,  that  I  must  resume 
or  recommence  my  life,  and  though  I  had  no  plan, 
no  central  idea  for  activity,  I  knew  that  the  pre- 
liminary of  any  scheme  would  be  the  purgation  of 
my  desk.  And  I  set  leisurely  about  it. 

Delving  I  came  to  a  prescription  of  the  doctor's, 
stamped  and  numbered  by  the  chemist  who  had 

312 


EDITH 


made  it  up.  I  could  not  recall  when  he  had  writ- 
ten it,  nor  decide  whether  it  was  for  Inez  or  for  me. 
He  might  have  written  it  on  the  night  of  my  an- 
gina pectoris,  as  I  lay  in  delirium.  .  .  .  All  that 
was  like  history  now,  and  the  doctor  himself  had 
receded  temporarily  into  history.  In  a  day  I  had 
nearly  forgotten  him.  He  had  assisted  intimately 
and  vitally  at  great  crises  of  my  existence,  he  had 
probably  saved  my  life,  he  knew  the  nakedness  of 
my  instincts — and  already  I  had  put  him  away  into 
a  closed  cupboard  of  my  memory.  He  had  come, 
and  he  had  gone. 

At  length  I  arrived  at  the  lowest  stratum,  the 
writing-pad,  with  the  weekly  date  block  a  week 
in  arrear.  I  tore  off  the  leaf.  Scattered  over  the 
blotting  paper  were  a  number  of  little  round  marks. 
They  were  the  marks  of  the  tears  which  Inez  had 
shed  as  she  sat  at  the  desk  after  her  confession  to 
me.  I  had  watched  those  tears  fall  one  by  one 
from  her  cheeks,  and  there  they  were  faintly  pre- 
served in  the  blotting  paper!  Across  the  blotting 
paper,  too,  was  the  record  of  Inez's  large,  careless 
handwriting.  She  had  written,  then,  at  my  desk. 
With  a  paper  knife  I  detached  the  upper  sheet  of 
blotting  paper  and  held  it  reversed  to  the  light. 
There  were  two  of  Inez's  writings  on  it,  one  across 
the  other — telegrams.  One  was  addressed  to  my 

313 


THE    GLIMPSE 


sister  and  ran:  "  Come  instantly,  very  serious, 
Morrice  " — then  two  words  that  had  not  blotted — 
"  Inez."  The  other  was  clearer:  "  Realism,  Lon- 
don. Shall  not  come.  Inez."  It  was  one  of  John 
Hulse's  caprices  to  have  a  registered  telegraphic 
address,  and  "  realism  "  was  the  word  he  had  cho- 
sen for  it,  characteristically.  Inez  had  sent  off  that 
telegram  early  on  the  morning  when  she  supposed 
me  to  be  dead.  She  had  not  told  him  that  I  was 
dead.  She  had  not  deigned  to  tell  him  that  I  was 
dead;  or  she  had  not  known  how  to  frame  the  mes- 
sage. She  had  confined  herself  to  the  essential. 
Doubtless  it  was  upon  the  receipt  of  this  telegram 
that  John  Hulse,  furious  against  the  instability  of 
women,  had  fled  suddenly  in  disgust  to  Paris  or 
somewhere,  to  rearrange  his  plans.  And  he  had 
not  returned.  As  yet  he  probably  knew  nothing, 
unless  he  had  seen  the  English  papers. 

I  held  the  historical  document  in  my  hand,  hesi- 
tatingly. Then  I  tore  it  up  into  small  pieces  and 
dropped  it,  quietly,  into  the  waste-paper  basket.  I 
could  not  have  kept  it.  Had  I  kept  it  I  should 
have  deemed  myself  guilty  of  a  repugnant  senti- 
mentality. And  perhaps  it  was  too  sacred  to  keep. 

I  mused  a  long  time  on  history.  Although  it 
was  my  pride  to  regard  history  with  the  large  mag- 
nanimous calm  of  a  philosopher,  I  was  shaken  by 

3*4 


EDITH 


the  unexpected  revelation  of  that  document.  I 
could  not  analyze  my  feelings.  Let  us  say  merely 
that  I  was  conscious  of  an  exceeding  strange  emo- 
tion. 

And  then  the  door  leading  from  the  drawing- 
room  was  cautiously  opened,  and  I  saw  the  smil- 
ing, rather  roguish  face  of  a  woman  in  a  large, 
black  hat,  and  under  that  face  the  smiling  serious 
face  of  a  little  girl.  They  were  peeping  at  me. 
Their  playful  intention  had  been  to  startle  the  soli- 
tary man  in  his  study,  and  they  had  succeeded. 

"  I've  brought  Edith  to  see  you,"  said  Mary. 

Holding  my  niece's  hand  she  came  into  the 
room. 

To  see  these  two  together,  especially  in  panoply, 
was  a  moving  sight.  Mary  gazed  on  her  offspring 
with  a  passionate  and  proud  affection  which  no  re- 
serve of  demeanor  could  hide.  It  had  always  seemed 
strange,  piquant,  to  me  that  my  sister  should  be  a 
mother  like  other  women,  and  that  she  should  have 
passed  through  a  great  tragedy  of  her  own.  My 
sister  always  seemed  to  me  to  be,  not  a  grown-up 
woman,  but  the  girl  that  I  had  known  as  a  youth, 
brilliantly  imitating  a  grown-up  woman  in  appear- 
ance, gesture,  and  wisdom.  There  were  moments 
when  her  face  had  the  expression  of  a  girl's,  and 
not  at  all  of  a  mother's,  of  a  widow's.  And  just 
21  315 


THE    GLIMPSE 


now,  as  she  gazed  at  her  child,  it  had  the  expres- 
sion of  a  girl's  and  of  a  mother's,  too.  It  was  young, 
and  yet  it  was  old.  It  was  innocent  and  yet  it  was 
experienced,  disillusioned,  and  ironic.  It  had  in  it 
everything. 

Whenever  she  was  with  her  child  the  glance  of 
her  eye  and  the  gestures  of  her  body  appeared  to 
be  saying:  "  I  am  a  sensible  mother.  I  do  not  de- 
ceive myself  about  Edith.  I  am  not  silly  about  her. 
I  treat  her  with  firmness.  I  exact  obedience.  I  am 
not  a  slave  to  her.  I  do  not  consider  her  to  be 
the  most  marvelous  child  that  was  ever  born.  I 
merely  do  my  best  to  bring  her  up  properly  and  to 
keep  her  in  good  health.  I  am  absolutely  impar- 
tial concerning  her.  The  last  thing  I  wish  is  to 
weary  people  with  her.  .  .  .  Still,  you  will  proba- 
bly admit  of  your  own  accord  that  she  does  genu- 
inely differ  from  the  ordinary." 

You  looked  at  Edith  and,  if  you  could  see,  you 
saw  a  miracle.  A  delicate  plant,  and  Mary,  by  the 
long  miracle  of  expert  knowledge,  watchfulness, 
self-control,  and  perseverance,  was  flowering  it  in 
perfection.  The  coniour  of  those  cheeks,  the  ex- 
quisite bloom  on  them — these  were  not  Mary's 
creation,  but  she  had  evolved  them;  their  flawless- 
ness  was  her  creation.  The  white  frock,  cap,  stock- 
ings, shoes,  gloves — in  every  incredibly  meticulous 

316 


EDITH 


detail  you  could  discern  Mary  and  her  maternal 
passion.  The  article  was  finished,  in  every  way  fin- 
ished. The  article  represented  years  of  the  activity 
of  a  first-class  brain  and  of  a  terrible  affection.  It 
was  put  forward,  with  superficial  negligence,  as  be- 
ing a  triflle,  a  mere  female  infant  conscientiously 
cared  for,  such  as  exists  in  tens  of  thousands  all 
over  England.  But  in  the  slight  involuntary  trem- 
bling of  the  head  of  the  mother,  in  the  lifting  of 
that  head,  in  the  proud  dart  from  the  mother's  eye, 
there  was  a  supreme  challenge.  It  was  as  if  Mary 
had  cried  aloud: 

"There!  .  .  .  Can  you  match  it?" 

Edith,  without  instructions,  came  primly  for- 
ward to  me,  walking  just  as  though  she  were  a  pro- 
cession, and  raised  her  mouth  to  kiss  my  cheek. 
She  had,  I  knew,  been  taught  never  to  kiss  any- 
body on  the  mouth  except  her  mother. 

"  Good  morning,  uncle." 

She  stared  at  me  curiously,  wonderingly. 

"  Good  morning,  Edith." 

I  lifted  my  eyebrows  as  high  as  I  could,  in  a 
question,  and  stuck  out  my  knee,  glancing  at  it. 

She  smiled  and  nodded  assent,  and  then  I 
perched  her  on  my  knee,  and  she  smoothed  her 
frock,  and  sighed,  looking  round  the  room.  In  an- 
other moment,  a  contraction  of  the  muscles  draw- 

317 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ing  her  thighs  into  line  with  her  back  warned  me 
that  she  had  had  enough  of  my  knee.  She  slipped 
down,  and  leaned  against  it,  folding  her  arms  like 
an  old  woman.  That  fluffy  cocoon  of  linen  and 
lace  was  between  my  knees,  and  I  could  detect  the 
faint,  fine  color  of  a  new  frock  and  of  clean  warm 
flesh.  Both  Mary  and  I  looked  at  her.  She  was 
quite  accustomed  to  being  looked  at.  In  spite  of 
her  mother's  despotism  and  frigid  impartiality,  she 
knew  that  she  was  the  center  of  the  world  and  the 
most  important  thing  in  it.  Her  mother's  stupen- 
dous and  to  her  often  tiresome  particularity  in  all 
that  concerned  her  was  a  subtle  and  intense  flat- 
tery to  her. 

"  I  was  thinking/'  said  Mary.  "  You  wouldn't 
mind  me  leaving  her  here  this  morning  while  I  go 
and  do  some  errands." 

She  said  it  with  an  offhand  air,  simulated.  A 
prevarication,  of  course!  Mary  had  brought  Edith 
with  the  sole  aim  of  distracting  me.  She  had  been 
saying  to  herself:  "  It  would  be  a  good  thing  for 
him  to  have  Edith  for  a  while.  It  would  take  him 
out  of  himself."  And  she  had  determined  to  accord 
me  the  incomparable  toy,  the  toy  beyond  rubies. 

"  The  point  is,"  I  said.  "  Whether  we  can  trust 
mother  to  go  out  alone,  isn't  it,  Edith?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  agreed,  smiling  confidentially  at  her 


EDITH 


mother  as  if  to  say:  "  We  must  humor  this  clown, 
because  we  like  him." 

As  soon  as  Marion  had  been  summoned  and  we 
had  arranged  that  mother  and  daughter  should 
lunch  with  me,  Mary  prepared  to  depart. 

"  Aren't  you  going  to  take  your  hat  and  gloves 
off,  Edith,  or  do  you  prefer  to  keep  them  on?  "  the 
mother  inquired. 

"  Can  I  go  into  uncle's  bedroom?  "  Edith  asked. 

'  Why,  of  course!  "  I  said.  "  There  are  several 
glasses." 

"  Better  kiss  me  before  you  go,"  said  her  mother. 
'  There's  no  knowing  how  long  you'll  be,  and  I 
can't  wait." 

They  kissed.  No  injunction  from  the  mother  to 
the  child  to  be  good,  no  specific  behests  or  pro- 
hibitions! Another  of  Mary's  fads  was  never  to 
train  her  child  in  public.  Edith  went  toward  the 
little  door,  raised  her  arm  to  turn  the  knob,  turned 
it  with  difficulty,  and  vanished,  shutting  the  door 
behind  her,  to  remove  her  street  attire. 

'  There  was  one  thing  I  thought  of,"  said  Mary, 
as  soon  as  we  were  alone,  with  the  change  of  voice 
that  the  departure  of  a  child  always  brings  about. 
"  I  thought  I'd  better  mention  it  to  you  at  once. 
Would  you  like  me  to  go  through  Inez's  things  for 
you?  Or  would  you  prefer  to  do  that  yourself?  It 

319 


THE   GLIMPSE 


won't  do  to  leave  them  about  indefinitely,  will 
it?" 

The  immediate  propriety  of  this  task  had  not  oc- 
curred to  me. 

"  I  wish  you  would,"  I  said. 

"  Of  course  you'll  keep  the  jewelry?  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 

We  could  neither  of  us  speak  in  natural  tones. 

I  followed  Mary  out  of  the  room  to  the  vesti- 
bule. There  we  encountered  the  cook,  who,  ex- 
cited about  the  lunch,  was  anxious  to  learn  exactly 
what  Miss  Edith  might  and  would  eat.  A  consid- 
erable discussion  ensued,  fostered  by  the  cook. 
The  cook  kept  protesting  that  not  for  the  whole 
world  would  she  have  anything  happen  to  Miss 
Edith  through  her  agency,  in  the  way  of  indiges- 
tion. Seeing  that  Mary  scarcely  ever  brought 
Edith  to  London,  it  was  highly  perspicuous  of  the 
cook  to  have  divined  that  Edith  was  in  fact  the 
center  of  the  world. 

When  I  went  back  to  the  study  I  discovered 
Edith  sliding  down  from  a  chair  in  front  of  a  dwarf 
bookcase.  The  top  of  this  bookcase  was  the  ap- 
pointed place  of  my  crimson  Bernard-Moore  vase. 
The  vase  now  lay  on  the  carpet,  in  three  pieces. 

"  I  don't  know  what  mother  will  say!  "  Edith 
murmured,  smoothing  her  frock  again,  and  glanc- 

320 


EDITH 


ing  at  me.  Her  face  was  flushed.  "  You  know, 
I'm  always  climbing,  and  mother  can't  under- 
stand it,  and  I'm  sure  I  can't!  " 

"  Perhaps  the  vase  fell  off  by  itself,"  I  said. 
"  Vases  sometimes  do,  especially  red  vases." 

"  Oh,  no!  "  she  assured  me.  "  I  got  on  to  the 
chair  and  knocked  against  it,  and  off  it  fell.  I 
nearly — nearly  caught  it,  but  vases  are  so  slip- 
pery." 

"  What  did  you  get  on  the  chair  for?  " 

"  So  that  I  could  see  on  to  the  top  of  the  book- 
case. Mother  says  she's  afraid  I  shall  be  a  moun- 
taineer." 

"  What  is  a  mountaineer?  " 

"  Oh!  Uncle!  Don't  you  know  Excelsior?  I 
do.  '  A  banner  with  the  strange  device.'  That's  a 
mountaineer.  Only  mother  says  they  never  go  up 
at  night.  They  always  start  before  breakfast,  be- 
fore even  the  gas  lamps  are  turned  out.  So  it  is 
night  after  all,  but  backward.  I  don't  know  what 
mother  will  say." 

"  Will  she  be  angry?  " 

"  Oh,  no!  She's  never  angry.  She  reasons  with 
me.  I  wish  she  would  be  angry.  When  she  rea- 
sons with  me  it's  awful.  It  makes  me  so  ashamed. 
Then  she  asks  me  whether  I  don't  think  I  ought  to 
do  something  to  myself  to  make  me  remember. 

321 


THE   GLIMPSE 


And  of  course,  I  say  I  will,  because  I  ought.  Then  I 
have  to  think  of  something  that  I  can  do  to  myself. 
So  mother  doesn't  punish  me,  I  punish  myself. 
Mother  says  in  the  end  we  always  punish  ourselves 
when  we  go  against  reason.  And  it's  very  diffi- 
cult." 

"What  is?" 

"  Punishing  myself.  Sometimes  I  feel  afterwards 
somehow  as  if  I'd  punished  myself  too  hard,  and 
sometimes  not  hard  enough.  I  know  how  I  shall 
have  to  punish  myself  for  this.  I'm  invited  to  a 
garden  party  to-morrow  afternoon,  and  I  shall  have 
to  punish  myself  by  not  going.  I  can't  see  any- 
thing else  for  it.  And  I  did  want  to  go,  because 
there'll  be  ices.  And  I  can  only  have  ices  when 
I'm  out.  Mother  says  ices  are  quite  against  rea- 
son, but  when  I'm  out  I  can  have  a  little  one,  be- 
cause it's  not  nice  to  seem  peculiar  in  your  ways." 

"Well,"  I  said,  "if  I  were  you  I  shouldn't 
breathe  a  word  about  this  vase  business  to  any- 
one." 

"  Not  to  mother?  " 

"  No." 

"  But  I  must.     I've  broken  it." 

:t  Well!  It's  my  vase.  Suppose  I  thank  you  for 
breaking  it?  Suppose  I  wanted  it  broken?  " 

"  But  I  was  climbing  up  things.  No  sooner  had 
322 


EDITH 


I  got  into  the  room,  than  I  began  climbing  up 
things.  And  I'm  always  doing  it,  away  from  home. 
I  don't  do  it  much  at  home  because  I've  been  up 
nearly  everywhere  at  home,  and  I  know  what's  on 
the  top  of  everything." 

"  And  supposing  I  say  that  I  like  you  to  climb 
up?  Supposing  I  tell  you  that  curiosity  is  a 
great  virtue?  " 

"Is  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  mother.    So  it's  no  use." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  you  don't  care  twopence 
what  I  think.  It's  only  what  your  mother  thinks 
that  you  care  about.  After  all,  it's  my  vase  you've 
broken,  not  your  mother's.  If  I'd  been  sorry 
about  it,  you  would  have  had  to  apologize  to  me 
and  said  how  sorry  you  were  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing.  But  as  I'm  glad,  and  as  I  don't  want  any 
fuss  made,  and  as  I  like  you  to  have  an  ice  now 
and  then,  and  as  I'm  not  very  well  and  have  to  be 
humored — I  think  I  ought  to  be  allowed  to  decide 
what's  going  to  happen.  Besides,  you're  an  inde- 
pendent human  being,  aren't  you?  " 

"  That's  what  mother  often  says." 

"  And  I'm  a  great  deal  older  than  your  mother." 

There  was  a  pause. 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  mother." 
323 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"  Very  well,  then,"  I  yielded.  "  But  let's  pick 
up  the  pieces." 

I  bent  down  to  pick  up  the  pieces.  But  Edith 
did  not  follow  me.  When  I  looked  at  her  again,  I 
saw  her  lower  lip  dropping,  dropping,  and  all  the 
curves  of  her  face  developing  angles.  She  was  in 
the  gravest  danger  of  tears.  And  I  had  not  sus- 
pected it.  I  had  thought  that  she  had  been  argu- 
ing the  point  of  conduct  with  a  complete  absence 
of  emotion.  The  threatened  fit  of  crying  seemed 
like  a  catastrophe  to  me.  And  it  was  perilously 
imminent.  I  dropped  the  pieces  of  the  vase  on  to  a 
table,  and  took  Edith  in  my  arms  and  sat  down 
with  her  in  the  easy-chair,  and  tried  to  soothe  her 
grief.  I  had  her  close  to  me.  Her  head  was  on  my 
waistcoat,  and  her  bare  little  legs  sprawling  over 
mine,  and  her  hair  about  my  chin.  I  could  feel  her 
heart  beating,  and  the  thrill  of  her  body.  I  could 
feel  a  sob  gathering  within  her  to  burst.  I  mur- 
mured to  her.  ...  It  was  the  narrowest  escape. 
A  trifle,  a  nothing,  and  she  would  have  wept  vio- 
lently! But  the  storm  edged  off.  After  a  few  mo- 
ments she  gazed  up  at  me  with  a  melancholy  smile. 
I  had  an  extraordinary  and  exquisite  sense  of  in- 
timacy with  her. 

"  Perhaps  I  needn't  tell  mother,"  she  whispered. 

"  Well,"  I  said.  "  I  don't  want  to  overpersuade 
324 


EDITH 


you.  You  do  as  you  like.  But  if  I  were  you,  I 
should  say  nothing  about  it." 

"And  it  is  very  hot  weather,  isn't  it?" 

"  What's  that  got  to  do  with  it?  " 

"  It's  so  what  I  call  icy  weather." 

"  You're  right,"  I  said.    "  It's  very  icy  weather." 

Later  she  said: 

"Well,  that's  over!  But  you  know,  uncle, 
you're  only  pretending  you  don't  care  for  that 


vase." 


"  I'm  not  saying  it  wasn't  a  decent  sort  of  vase," 
I  replied. 

"  Was  it  hers?  "  she  asked  in  an  awed  voice. 

"Whose?" 

"  Auntie's."    In  a  still  lower  tone. 

"  No." 

"  There  I  go  again!  "  said  Edith.  "  Mother  said 
I  was  not  to  say  anything  to  you  at  all  about 
auntie.  But  I  really  couldn't  help  that.  If  it  had 
been  auntie's  vase  I  think  I  should  have  had  to  tell 
mother,  then.  So  I  was  bound  to  know.  .  .  . 
Then  why  were  you  so  fond  of  it?  " 

"  I'll  tell  you  why  I  was  fond  of  it.  And  you 
mustn't  tell  anybody." 

"  Not  mother?  " 

"  No.  Not  mother.  I  was  once  in  this  room 
when  everything  melted  away  except  that  vase. 

325 


THE   GLIMPSE 


There  was  nothing  except  that  vase,  sticking  up 
by  itself  out  of  nothing." 

"  But  weren't  you  dreaming,  uncle?  " 

"  No,  I  wasn't  dreaming." 

"  Did  you  pinch  yourself  to  make  sure  you 
weren't  dreaming?  " 

"  No.    But  I  knew  I  wasn't." 

She  reflected. 

"  I  suppose  things  do  happen  like  that  some- 
times," she  said  calmly.  "  I've  always  thought 
everything  was  very  queer." 

We  were  silent.  We  said  no  more  on  that  sub- 
ject. Never  since  have  I  mentioned  that  subject 
to  anybody.  And  were  I  to  mention  it  I  should 
never  perhaps  get  a  response  so  startling  and  so 
satisfactory  as  Edith's. 

I  suggested  to  her  the  wisdom  of  hiding  the 
vase,  and  she  agreed.  Standing  on  tiptoe,  I  gen- 
tly dropped  the  pieces  one  after  another,  behind 
the  cornice  of  my  highest  bookcase. 

"  I  wish  I  was  as  tall  as  you,  uncle,"  she  said. 
:(  Then  I  should  never  have  to  climb,  and  mother 
would  be  ever  so  much  happier.  But  I  suppose  it 
wouldn't  do  for  me  to  be  taller  than  mother." 

"  Now,  I  think  I  shall  write  a  letter  for  another 
vase,"  I  said.  "  But  I  shan't  tell  the  man  that  this 
one  is  broken.  Because  he's  a  genius  and  he  never 

326 


EDITH 


makes  two  alike,  and  he  hates  to  hear  of  them 
being  broken." 

"  Do  they  cost  a  lot?  " 

"  No.  About  two  or  three  pounds.  The  Chinese 
used  to  make  them  thousands  of  years  ago,  and 
then  nobody  was  able  to  make  them  any  more  till 
this  man  found  out  how  to  make  them,  because 
he's  a  genius." 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  told  me  all  that,  uncle." 

"  Why?  " 

"  It  makes  me  begin  to  feel  sorry  again.  .  .  . 
Uncle!" 

"Well?" 

"  As  I've  mentioned  her  once,  I  suppose  I  might 
as  well  mention  her  again.  Auntie  used  to  give  me 
a  chocolate  when  mother  brought  me  to  see  her. 
And  it's  such  a  long  time  since  I  was  here.  Per- 
haps if  I  could  have  a  chocolate  it  would  do  my 
sorryness  good." 

"  Next  time,"  I  said.  For  I  was  actually  with- 
out this  necessary  of  life. 

"  I  think  I  know  where  auntie  used  to  keep 
them,"  she  insinuated. 

And  as  a  fact  she  did  know.  She  found  a  pro- 
vision of  chocolates  in  a  lacquered  box  in  the  draw- 
ing-room. And  I  had  never  known  that  there  were 
chocolates  in  that  lacquered  box.  I  passed  the 

327 


THE    GLIMPSE 


whole  morning  in  making  the  acquaintance  of 
Edith.  She  had  visited  me  before,  and  I  had  vis- 
ited her.  But  it  was  six  months  since  I  had  seen 
her,  an  in  that  time  a  new  Edith  had  supplanted 
the  old  one. 

A  very  dramatic  thing  happened  when  Mary  re- 
turned for  lunch.  Edith  and  I,  after  touring  round 
most  of  the  flat,  were  back  in  the  study.  Mary  en- 
tered, hot  and  hurried,  and  with  a  self-conscious 
mien.  She  kissed  her  daughter  absently,  negli- 
gently, and  walked  almost  straight  across  the  room 
toward  the  dwarf  bookcase  from  which  the  vase 
had  toppled. 

:'  Why!  "  she  exclaimed.  "  What  have  you  done 
with  your  rouge  flanibe  vase?  " 

It  was  just  one  of  those  sinister  coincidences 
which  victimize  children,  rendering  earth  an  im- 
possible habitation  for  them.  I  dared  not  look  at 
Edith,  but  I  knew  that  she  must  be  reddening.  I 
felt  that  all  depended  on  my  courage  and  tact. 

"  Oh!  "  I  answered.  "  I've  been  rearranging 
things.  I've  put  it  on  the  top  of  a  bookcase." 

Happily  she  did  not  inquire  further.  I  perceived 
that  she  was  very  preoccupied. 

"  Captain  Hulse  is  back  in  town,"  she  said  the 
next  moment.  She  flushed.  She  could  not  speak 
his  name,  the  impassible  Mary,  without  flushing!  I 

328 


EDITH 


too,  was  confused,  but  not  for  the  same  reason  as 
she. 

"  Have  you  seen  him?  "  I  asked. 

"  No.  But  I've  been  telephoning  to  him  at  the 
club.  He'd  sent  a  note  for  me  there.  He  only  got 
back  this  morning — and  found  both  the  letters  I'd 
written  to  him.  It  must  have  been  a  fearful  shock 
for  him,  of  course!  He's  coming  to  see  you  this 
afternoon  or  to-night." 

There  stood  Edith,  looking  at  me,  conscious 
that  events  had  with  grievous  suddenness  lessened 
her  importance  to  me. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII 
JOHNNIE'S   RETURN 

THAT  afternoon  I  sat  in  my  study,  engaged  in 
nothing  but  thought.  I  had  not  as  yet  found 
interest  again  in  any  kind  of  work.  The  occupa- 
tions of  my  brain  were  Inez  and,  after  her,  the  beings 
by  whom  I  was  surrounded.  My  concerned  curios- 
ity about  the  ordeals  of  Inez,  and  the  fresh  piquancy 
of  regarding  my  fellow-creatures  as  immortals  pass- 
ing through  a  phase  of  eclipse — I  had  in  this  matter 
and  this  experience,  more  than  enough  to  make  the 
minutes  fly.  You  may  say  I  had  always  known 
that  death  must  bring  strange  ordeals  in  its  train; 
you  may  say  that  I  had  always  known  that  my  fel- 
low-creatures must  be  in  one  sense  or  another  im- 
mortal, that  at  least  the  stuff  of  them  was  uncreated 
and  indestructible.  Yes,  it  is  true  that  I  had  always 
known.  But  it  is  also  true  that  I  had  never  realized. 
The  realization  pleasurably  animated  every  instant 
of  my  day.  My  thoughts  hovered  eagerly  around 
it  as  the  thoughts  of  a  man  of  genius  will  hover 
round  the  discovery  which  he  has  made.  All  my 

330 


JOHNNIE'S    RETURN 


senses  were  titillated,  as  when  one  is  seeing  a  foreign 
country  for  the  first  time. 

Mary,  before  setting  out  in  the  morning,  had  said 
that  she  could  not  stay  after  lunch.  But  later  she 
had  changed  her  mind.  And  now  she  was  employed 
in  the  bedroom,  going  through  all  Inez's  things 
and  deciding  for  me  what  was  to  happen  to  them. 
Marion  was  helping  her.  Edith  slumbered  in  the 
dining  room.  The  child  could  not  have  slept  in  the 
bedroom  without  completely  stopping  her  mother's 
work,  and  Mary  would  not  allow  her  to  monopolize 
the  drawing-room.  Mary  had  two  principles  in  the 
care  of  her  daughter:  Edith  must  never  inconven- 
ience others,  and  Edith  must  always  be  perfectly 
tended.  The  war  of  these  two  opposing  principles 
sometimes  caused  difficulties  that  only  Mary's  brain 
could  solve.  The  lunch-table  had  to  be  cleared  very 
quickly,  and  the  dining  room  cleansed  of  the  odors 
of  food  by  Mary's  own  process  of  ventilation.  Two 
armchairs  had  to  be  placed  front  to  front,  and  a 
shawl  stretched  over  their  seats.  Then  Edith  had 
to  be  lifted  into  this  pen,  out  of  which  the  accidents 
of  sleep  could  not  tumble  her;  and  she  had  to  be 
covered,  neither  too  lightly  nor  too  heavily.  That 
Edith  would  duly  sleep  in  this  peculiar  contrivance 
and  these  unfamiliar  surroundings,  seemed  to  be 
axiomatic  in  the  minds  of  both  Mary  and  Edith. 
22  331 


THE   GLIMPSE 


Edith  smiled  at  us  in  farewell,  and  the  doors  of  the 
dining  room  were  closed  on  her ;  and  Mary  assured 
everybody  that  the  ordinary  existence  of  the  flat 
might  and  must  proceed  as  usual,  with  no  precau- 
tions whatever  of  silence,  as  Edith's  faculty  of  sleep 
had  been  trained  to  ignore  all  noises  exterior  to  the 
room  in  which  she  actually  was.  Nevertheless  the 
flat  was  hushed.  Edith  slumbered.  Edith  was  tak- 
ing the  rest  which  was  essential  to  the  perfect  de- 
velopment of  a  young  child.  This  fact  colored  the 
consciousness  of  all.  More,  it  produced  a  solemn 
joy  in  the  flat,  where  no  child  had  lived. 

I  thought  of  the  placid  and  sad  activities  of  the 
women,  and  of  the  slumber  of  the  young  child ;  and 
the  thought  was  happiness. 

Then  I  heard  vague  sounds,  signs  of  disturbance 
of  the  current  of  our  existence ;  and  then  talking  in 
the  drawing-room.  I  could  not  mistake  that  voice. 
It  was  the  magnificent  and  rich  voice  of  John  Hulse. 
He  had  come,  then !  I  did  not  doubt  that  it  was  for 
this  Mary  had  stayed. 

I  shook  with  excitement,  with  apprehension.  The 
image  of  John  Hulse,  which  had  been  chained  and 
hidden  by  force  at  the  back  of  my  mind,  leaped  for- 
ward like  a  beast  into  an  arena,  scattering  every- 
thing. He  had  come  to  pay  his  visit.  He  had  dared 
the  adventure.  He  was  bound  to  come.  Conven- 

332 


JOHNNIE'S    RETURN 


tion  compelled  him  to  come.  He  had  not  dared  to 
stay  away.  ...  I  was  the  outraged  husband,  he 
the  virtual  adulterer.  Chance  alone  had  prevented 
the  consummation  of  the  injury  against  me.  Here 
was  the  man  who  had  made  a  rendezvous  with  my 
wife,  in  my  drawing-room,  after  dining  with  me. 
I  had  to  meet  him.  I  might  have  written  to  him  and 
so  prevented  the  meeting.  I  might  have  told  my 
secret  to  Mary,  and  so  prevented  the  meeting;  but 
I  had  done  nothing.  If  I  followed  social  precedent, 
any  but  formal  and  brief  intercourse  between  us 
was  impossible.  If  I  followed  social  precedent  I 
should  indicate  to  him,  by  a  glance,  a  tone,  or  a 
horsewhip,  that  I  was  aware  of  my  misfortune  and 
of  his  share  in  it;  and  he  would  quit  the  flat  at  once, 
never  to  reenter  it.  And  I  should  stand  in  the 
midst  of  my  hearthrug  with  anger  sated. 

But  I  could  not  feel  a  genuine  anger.  Something 
base  in  me  tried  to  summon  up  a  genuine  anger,  and 
failed.  I  could  not  be  at  once  resentful  against  him 
and  honest  with  myself.  .  .  .  "What!  Love  your 
enemies  by  all  means,  but  love  the  man  who  has  tried 
to  seduce  your  wife?  Monstrous!  "  I  am  on  what 
is  termed  dangerous  ground  here.  But  I  am  indiffer- 
ent because  I  feel  so  secure.  The  deepest  feeling  in 
me  was  one  of  sympathy  with  John  Hulse.  Call  it 
monstrous.  It  may  be  monstrous  that  the  deepest 

333 


THE   GLIMPSE 


feeling  in  me  was  one  of  sympathy  with  John  Hulse ; 
but  it  is  true.  I  understood  him  so  well;  I  under- 
stood Inez  so  well.  I  could  see  the  germination  of 
the  sentiment  between  them.  An  inflection  from 
her,  a  glance  from  him,  and  it  was  born !  They  both 
ignored  it  at  first,  but  there  it  was,  growing.  From 
ignoring  it,  they  came  to  smiling  at  it.  Then  it 
tempted  them.  It  tempted  Inez  more  than  John 
Hulse.  She  more  than  Johnnie  fed  it  with  the 
strengthening  food  of  reflection.  I  could  hear  her 
words,  uttered  to  me  in  the  room  where  I  was:  I've 
stood  it  too  long  .  .  .  getting  up  in  the  morning  with 
the  feeling  that  no  man  was  thinking  about  me  .  .  , 
that  no  man  was  happy  or  unhappy  because  of  me. 
.  .  .  How  many  years  have  I  stood  that?  .  .  .  These 
words,  or  words  to  that  effect!  The  original  fault 
was  mine.  My  enormous  egoism  had  brought  it 
about.  I  had  not  been  clever  enough  even  to  di- 
vine my  wife's  habitual  thoughts  on  getting  up  in 
a  morning!  And  the  words  of  Inez  which  above  all 
others  sounded  in  my  ears  were  the  slashing, 
wounding  phrase:  It  was  just  like  you!  A  phrase 
spoken  under  a  misapprehension,  a  phrase  entirely 
unjust  as  she  meant  it;  but  how  terribly  indicative 
of  the  attitude  of  mind  toward  me  which  my  bland 
conduct  had  induced  in  her!  How  expressive  of 
the  secret  bitterness  with  which  my  attitude  toward 

334 


JOHNNIE'S    RETURN 


her  had  impregnated  her  love  for  me!  For  she  had 
loved  me.  The  abandonment  of  her  outburst  when 
she  had  flung  herself  on  my  lifeless  body  was  proof 
enough  that  throughout  her  relations  with  Johnnie 
Hulse  she  had  loved  me.  It  was  my  intellectual 
pride  and  the  ferocity  of  my  artistic  egoism  that, 
after  desolating  her,  had  pricked  her  into  the  arms 
of  Johnnie  Hulse.  ...  I  knew  the  arguments 
which  she  would  use  to  excuse  herself  to  herself,  and 
the  arguments  which  he  would  use.  I  could  appre- 
ciate their  seductive  plausibility.  .  .  .  After  all 
(they  would  say)  why  not?  It  can't  hurt  him.  It's 
nobody's  concern  but  ours!  It's  nothing!  .  .  . 
And  so  the  sentiment  kept  on  growing,  until  it 
commanded  and  was  imperious;  and  perhaps  it 
frightened  and  fascinated  Inez. 

I  knew  so  well  what  Hulse  would  be  saying  to 
himself  that  it  was  as  if  I  had  actually  been  Hulse. 
How  he  would  conquer  his  first  distaste  for  the  ca- 
price by  what  he  would  call  the  "  de-sentimentali- 
zation  "  of  it,  the  stripping  from  it  of  all  conven- 
tional preconceptions!  ...  I  knew  his  immense 
conviction  that  in  love  there  was  only  one  crime — 
the  crime  of  indiscretion.  I  knew  the  terrific  force 
of  habit  upon  him.  I  knew  the  certainty  in  him 
that  he  was  acting  justifiably  for  the  happiness  of 
himself  and  of  Inez,  and  that  his  one  duty  to  me 

335 


THE    GLIMPSE 


in  the  matter  was  to  deceive  me  with  adequate 
skill.  I  knew  that  he  was  perfectly  capable  of  de- 
ceiving me  while  retaining  all  his  affection  for  me. 
I  knew  that  the  constant  tendency  of  hypocrisy  is 
to  deny  the  capacity  of  the  human  heart  to  respond 
to  opposing  feelings  simultaneously. 

Inez  and  John  Hulse,  these  two  also  were  the 
blind  and  pathetic  victims  of  desire,  as  I  had  been. 
And  was  I  to  curse  and  wither  the  survivor  in  the 
affected  attitudes  of  Victorian  tragedy?  .  .  .  John 
Hulse,  from  everlasting  to  everlasting,  imprisoned 
for  a  moment  in  a  radiant  envelope  of  illusion,  and 
that  envelope  attached  to  a  gross  body  of  still  more 
fantastic  illusion;  and  the  episode  with  Inez  a  ca- 
pricious error  of  the  gross  body,  a  sin  far  more 
against  John  Hulse  than  against  me,  and  at  most 
a  moment  within  a  trifling  moment  of  eternity!  A 
misfortune  for  him,  not  a  crime!  And  neither  a 
misfortune  nor  a  crime,  but  a  nothing — nothing  in 
the  vast  and  majestic  evolution  of  the  divine  parti- 
cle that  named  itself,  just  now,  John  Hulse!  ...  I, 
with  my  acquired  knowledge,  could  only  ignore  the 
negligible  transient  vagary  of  the  flesh  that  for  a 
moment  impeded  John  Hulse's  true  consciousness 
of  himself. 

And  yet,  while  I  reasoned  thus,  my  hand  trem- 
bled at  the  prospect  of  having  to  meet  Johnnie 

336 


JOHNNIE'S    RETURN 


Hulse,  for  I  doubted  whether  I  possessed  suffi- 
cient force  to  triumph,  in  practice,  against  conven- 
tion. And  I  guessed  that  he,  too,  was  appre- 
hending the  interview  with  fear,  was  wondering 
anxiously  whether  Inez  had  confessed  to  me  before 
she  died,  was  consoling  himself  with  the  reflection 
that  at  any  rate  it  would  be  best  to  get  the  inter- 
view over,  for  good  or  for  evil.  And  the  appre- 
ciation of  this  state  increased  my  nervousness.  So 
that  I  could  not  bring  myself  to  rise  and  go  into  the 
drawing-room.  He  was  talking  to  Mary  even  more 
loudly  than  usual — evidence  that  he  was  indeed 
nervous  and  excited.  I  must  go  to  him.  If  I  did 
not  go  to  him,  Mary,  totally  unaware  of  the  two 
dramas  hidden  on  either  side  of  her,  would  be  com- 
ing to  fetch  me. 

I  arrived  at  the  door  between  the  two  rooms,  my 
fingers  on  the  knob.  Involuntarily  I  made  the  knob 
click.  I  was  bound  to  enter  then,  and  I  did  enter, 
suddenly. 

He  stood  on  the  hearthrug,  in  his  familiar  favor- 
ite posture,  with  his  hands  behind  him,  listening  to 
something  that  Mary  was  saying  about  our  doc- 
tor. He  wore  a  light  traveling  suit,  as  if  he  had  just 
arrived  from  beneath  the  suns  of  a  scorching  cli- 
mate. But  his  face  was  rather  pale.  He  turned  at 
my  entry,  and  Mary  ceased  speaking.  Our  eyes 

337 


THE   GLIMPSE 


met.  My  throat  was  so  strangely  dry  that  I  could 
not  articulate  a  word.  He  hesitated,  and  then,  ap- 
proaching me,  he  held  out  his  hand.  His  features 
showed  the  uncertainty  of  his  thoughts. 

"Well,  old  man,"  he  exclaimed.  "I'm. back, 
you  see!  " 

His  hand  seized  mine.  I  said  to  myself:  "  Un- 
less I  can  control  myself  better  than  this,  he  will 
guess  that  Inez  confessed  to  me,  and  everything 
will  be  finished  between  us."  Then  a  happy  instinct 
prompted  me  to  press  his  hand  strongly.  He  was 
reassured.  Both  he  and  Mary  imagined  that  my 
emotion  was  merely  that  of  the  widower,  meeting 
for  the  first  time  after  bereavement,  his  close  friend 
and  the  friend  of  his  wife.  The  mistake  was  nat- 
ural. I  sat  down.  The  worst  of  the  ordeal  was 
over. 


CHAPTER    XXXIX 

THE  LOVER   AND   THE   MOTHER 

WELL,  Johnnie,"  I  said,  "  what's  the  mean- 
ing of  this  mysterious  disappearance?  " 

I  put  the  question  to  him  almost  innocently,  al- 
most as  though  I  was  not  perfectly  aware  of  the 
origin  of  his  flight.  Even  to  myself  I  played  the 
man  who  knew  nothing. 

"  I  had  to  go  off  to  Paris  to  see  Durand-Ruel," 
he  replied,  quite  at  ease.  "  I  had  the  letter  at  night, 
and  I  caught  the  ten  o'clock  train." 

"  Not  like  you  to  be  up  so  early  as  all  that!  "  I 
said. 

The  "  letter "  which  he  had  received  was,  of 
course,  Inez's  telegram. 

"  And  when  I  was  once  there,  I  didn't  see  the 
point  of  coming  back.  The  fact  is,  I  went  down  to 
the  Cafe  des  Lilas,  and  found  a  new  lot  there,  nat- 
urally! Infants,  most  of  them!  Simple  infants! 
Of  course  I  had  to  go  to  the  Bal  Bullier.  You're 
always  hearing  people  say  that  the  Bal  Bullier  is 
nothing  to  what  it  used  to  be.  Rubbish!  It  always 

339 


THE    GLIMPSE 


was  half  sham  and  half  real.  It's  just  as  fine  as 
ever  it  was.  The  band  is  just  as  loud  and  the  beer 
is  just  as  poisonous.  The  girls  and  boys  throw 
themselves  into  the  dancing  with  just  the  same 
frenzy  as  ever,  and  the  hips  of  the  girls  have  just 
the  same  vulgar,  agreeable  swing.  Only  there  are 
more  lights,  and  the  fireworks  are  infinitely  better. 
But  you  never  were  allowed  to  take  your  walking- 
stick  into  the  hall,  and  you  aren't  now.  The  Bullier 
hasn't  changed,  except  for  the  better.  It's  we 
that  have  changed.  I  met  old  Lazarus  there — you 
know,  Conduit  Street — sighing  that  the  old  days 
were  gone,  etc.  I  told  him  straight  that  he  made 
me  simply  ill.  I  told  him  he  looked  like  a  crow  and 
that  he  ought  to  have  been  one.  Some  of  those  fel- 
lows will  almost  thank  you  for  insulting  them  .  .  . 
I  thought  it  wouldn't  do  me  any  harm  to  have  a 
few  days  at  a  big  life-class.  So  I  went  to  Cala- 
rossi's.  Hadn't  a  thing  with  me,  of  course.  But 
I  called  at  old  Lefebre-Foinet's  in  the  Rue  Vavin, 
and  he  fitted  me  up.  Same  as  ever  .  .  .  Told  me 
that  Slaxon,  A.R.A.,  if  you  please,,  still  owed  him 
over  two  thousand  francs  for  colors.  But  he  seems 
to  flourish  on  bad  debts.  He's  made  a  fortune  out 
of  bad  debts.  He,  too,  began  to  talk  to  me  about 
the  dear,  dead  days  beyond  recall  ...  I  don't 
know  what  people  mean  when  they  go  on  like  that. 

340 


THE   LOVER   AND    THE    MOTHER 

The  fact  is,  people  never  do  talk  like  that  till  their 
souls  have  died  in  their  bodies.  When  you  come 
near  some  of  'em  you  can  sniff  their  decaying  souls, 
positively." 

"  Really—"  Mary  protested. 

"  Yes,  really!  "  he  insisted,  not  excusing  the  vio- 
lence of  his  imagery.  "  7  can,  anyway.  I  can  tell 
you  there  wasn't  much  deadness  down  at  Cala- 
rossi's.  My  poor  friends,  the  vital  smell  on  a  hot 
evening!  My  poor  friends,  the  heat!  Models  in 
the  same  poses!  And  the  same  atrocious  jokes! 
The  same  appallingly  bad  work,  and  here  and  there 
a  bit  of  slap-up!  Same  American  virgins,  talking 
neither  French  nor  English!  It  did  me  good.  And 
I  learned  something  about  what  was  going  on — I 
mean  really  going  on;  not  what  you  read  in  the 
Gazette  des  Beaux- Arts.  I  lived  at  the  Hotel  de  la 
Place  de  1'Odeon,  and  ate  either  at  the  Tour  d' Ar- 
gent or  Laperouse.  After  I'd  done  with  Durand- 
Ruel,  I  assure  you  I  never  once  recrossed  the  river. 
Then  all  of  a  sudden  I  got  sick  of  it,  oh!  so  sick  of 
it  I  couldn't  stand  it  a  minute  longer!  I  don't 
know — it  all  seemed  to  me  so — I  don't  know.  I 
spent  my  last  night  at  the  Ritz,  and  went  to  the 
Marigny — I  don't  know  why.  That  was  only  the 
night  before  last.  I  meant  to  have  come  home  by 
the  four  o'clock  train  yesterday  afternoon,  but  I 


THE    GLIMPSE 


fidgeted  about  too  long  and  missed  it.  So  I 
got  to  London  this  morning — and  found  your  let- 
ter!" 

With  the  last  four  words  he  glanced  at  Mary, 
and  there  was  an  extraordinary  change  in  his  voice. 
The  change  in  his  magnificent  voice  made  Mary's 
eyes  humid,  and  I  could  feel  a  swift  tightness  in  the 
throat.  Strange  and  powerful  individuality!  The 
most  original,  perhaps,  I  have  ever  known!  Who 
could  have  guessed,  from  the  passionate  vehe- 
mence with  which  he  threw  out  the  description  of 
his  week  in  Paris,  that  within  the  previous  few  hours 
he  had  learned  of  the  death  amid  astounding  cir- 
cumstances of  the  woman  who  was  to  have  become 
his  mistress?  Who  could  have  guessed  that  his 
mind  had  the  slightest  preoccupation.  And  yet  in 
the  tone  of  those  four  last  words — "  and  found  your 
letter  " — he  in  a  flash  revealed  the  depths  of  a  mine 
of  feeling,  moving  us  both.  Not  that  he  was  re- 
garding the  dead  woman  as  a  lost  mistress.  No! 
He  had  rushed  to  Paris  in  order  to  enable  himself 
to  see  that  that  affair  of  the  heart  was  factitious 
and  unworthy  of  its  danger,  and  he  had  succeeded. 
He  was  regarding  the  dead  woman  as  the  heroic 
victim  in  his  friend's  tragedy;  he  was  regarding  her 
as  a  familiar,  and  as  a  human  being.  I  had  per- 
fectly convinced  him  that  I  knew  nothing,  and  so 

342 


THE   LOVER   AND   THE   MOTHER 

his  conscience  was  at  rest,  and  there  was  no  fear 
in  his  eyes  when  they  met  mine. 

Mary,  captured  by  the  magic  of  his  tone,  by  the 
tremendous  life  in  him,  and  by  his  careless  sincer- 
ity of  expression,  stared  at  him  admiringly.  She 
seemed  to  be  quite  unaware  of  herself.  Uncon- 
sciously she  leaned  a  little  toward  him  from  her 
chair,  looking  up  at  him,  her  lips  somewhat  parted. 
Her  face  glowed;  her  eyes  sparkled.  Even  the  least 
observant  would  have  decided  instantly:  "That 
woman  is  in  love  with  that  man,  and  very  much  in 
love."  Could  she  have  seen  herself  she  would  have 
been  very  painfully  shocked.  She  so  correct,  so 
reserved,  so  independent,  so  proud!  She  in  mourn- 
ing! She  a  mother!  But  she  could  not  see  herself. 
It  was  her  blind  and  innocent  unconsciousness  that 
redeemed  the  crudeness  of  the  situation,  that  made 
the  situation  fine.  And  after  all  she  was  not  a 
mother,  nor  in  mourning,  nor  jealous  for  the  dig- 
nity of  her  sex.  She  was  a  vigorous  and  sane 
woman  deeply  in  love. 

"  Tell  me,"  said  Johnnie  Hulse.  "  I  hope  she 
didn't  have  to  suffer  a  great  deal." 

He  frowned.  Possibly  a  more  ordinary  friend 
would  have  kept  away  from  the  great  subject  until 
later  in  the  interview;  or,  having  arrived  at  it  by 
chance  or  by  intention,  would  have  been  forced  by 

343 


THE    GLIMPSE 


tradition  into  expressions  of  sympathy  or  sorrow. 
But  not  Johnnie  Hulse.  He  seemed  to  follow  his 
thoughts  heedless  of  us.  And  his  frown  was  near- 
ly menacing — as  though,  if  Inez  had  suffered,  he 
would  be  capable  of  accusing  us.  The  spectacle  of 
futile  suffering  generally  led  him  to  criticise  sav- 
agely a  being  whom  he  considered  to  have  been 
badly  invented — the  occidental  God. 

I  shook  my  head,  and  answered  quickly,  before 
Mary  could  speak,  to  show  that  I  could  talk  about 
Inez  as  calmly  as  anybody: 

"  She  was  too  weak  to  suffer  much." 
"  That's  good !  "  he  murmured.    "  That's  good !  " 
There  followed  a  silence,  which  he  broke  by  ask- 
ing Mary: 

"  How  long  did  you  say  she  survived?  ': 
At  the  same  moment  the  door  from  the  dining 
room  was  pushed  open  and  Edith  came  in.  She 
had  wakened  up  from  a  long  sleep — perhaps  the 
voice  of  Johnnie  Hulse  had  entered  into  her 
dreams — and  had  climbed  out  of  her  pen  and 
blindly  tottered,  rather  than  walked,  toward  her 
mother.  She  was  no  longer  the  prim  and  preco- 
cious maiden,  but  the  little  animal  half-aroused. 
Her  hair  was  tangled,  her  frock  disarranged,  and 
her  delicious  face  still  swollen  and  crimson  with 
sleep.  She  rubbed  her  eyes  with  boyish  fists,  and 

344 


THE    LOVER   AND    THE   MOTHER 

looked  on  the  ground.  As  she  approached  her 
mother,  she  threw  her  head  back  to  get  the  hair  out 
of  her  blinking  eyes,  and  smiled  in  a  daze.  Her 
mother  took  her,  and  kissed  her,  and  with  per- 
suading fingers  smoothed  her  outlines  into  some 
sort  of  drawing-room  decency.  And  Edith  bridled 
and  yielded  under  the  touches,  smiling  again 
when  her  mother  expressed  privately  to  her 
an  acute  surprise  that  a  young  woman  so  experi- 
enced in  the  ways  of  the  world  should  enter  her 
uncle's  drawing-room  in  such  a  condition  of  dis- 
hevelment. 

'  This  is  my  daughter,  Edith,"  said  Mary. 
"  Edith,  dear,  will  you  go  and  shake  hands  with 
Captain  Hulse,  a  friend  of  your  uncle's  and  your 
mother's?  " 

These  two  had  not  met  before.  And  apparently 
Edith  was  not  anxious  that  they  should  meet  now. 
She  hung  back,  hesitating,  reluctant.  Johnnie 
made  a  step  toward  her,  and  waited.  Some  would 
doubtless  urge  that  it  was  the  infallible  instinct  of 
childhood  that  held  her  away  from  the  man  who 
was  absorbing  so  much  of  her  mother's  affection. 
But  a  child's  instinct  is  just  as  infallible  as  that  of 
a  dog — that  is  to  say,  it  errs  often.  Mary  bent 
down  whispering,  and  her  hair  touched  Edith's,  and 
edges  of  Edith's  frock  were  lost  in  the  folds  of 

345 


THE    GLIMPSE 


Mary's  black  dress.  And  then  Edith  detached  her- 
self, like  a  boat  from  a  ship,  and  walked  sedately 
across  to  meet  Johnnie  Hulse  at  the  edge  of  the 
hearth  rug. 

"  How  do  you  do?  "  she  said  stiffly,  holding  out 
her  trifling  hand. 

"  My  dear!  "  Johnnie  Hulse  responded  in  quick, 
generous  comradeship,  and  took  her  hand  politely 
in  his  large,  pale,  hairy  one.  His  smile  embraced 
her.  Upon  the  least  sign  of  encouragement  or 
even  acquiescence  from  her  he  would  have  picked 
her  up  in  his  arms  and  by  degrees  kissed  her;  he 
was  an  impassioned  defender  of  children  and  a  sub- 
scriber to  the  S.  P.  C.  C.  But  she  averted  her  eyes, 
and  drew  off.  Her  greeting  was  the  minimum  of 
politeness.  She  looked  at  her  mother  and  then  at 
me,  and  perceiving  that  she  had  not  enchanted  her 
mother  by  this  chilliness  toward  Captain  Hulse, 
she  came  to  me,  and  permitted  herself  to  be  perched 
on  my  knees.  She  and  I  were  now  bound  together 
by  the  sinister  secret  of  the  vase.  Her  body  was 
still  all  warm  with  sleep. 

We  could  not  maintain  a  conversation  about 
death  in  presence  of  Edith;  and  Mary  began  to  dis- 
cuss the  question  of  holidays,  saying  that  I  in  par- 
ticular needed  a  change,  not  to  speak  of  Edith. 
And  she  referred  to  Edith's  tastes  in  the  matter  of 

346 


THE    LOVER   AND    THE   MOTHER 

pleasure  resorts,  trying  obviously  to  get  Edith  to 
talk.  But  Edith  would  not  be  drawn  from  her  re- 
serve. Mary  was  the  mother  now,  as  well  as  the 
woman  in  love.  She  sought  to  reconcile  the  two 
roles.  It  was  a  most  wonderful  sight  to  see  these 
contrary  winds  blowing  across  her  features.  She 
wanted  to  recommend  Johnnie  Hulse  to  her  daugh- 
ter, and  yet  she  knew  that  recommendation  would 
be  useless  and  that  Edith's  feelings  alone  would 
guide  her.  And  Mary's  clear  conviction  that  John- 
nie must  of  necessity  be  at  once  captivated  by  the 
charm  of  Edith — this  conviction  was  almost  pa- 
thetic in  its  simplicity. 

Then  tea  was  served.  Mary  talked,  and  John- 
nie talked;  and  I  talked  a  little.  Edith  ate  sol- 
emnly, sharing  my  tea,  and  using  my  saucer  as  a 
base  of  supplies.  I  felt  that  if  only  my  vision  had 
been  keener,  I  could  have  descried  Mary's  unut- 
tered  appeal  to  Johnnie  Hulse:  "  Can't  you  make 
friends  with  her?  " 

When  tea  was  nearly  over,  I  said  casually  to 
Edith: 

"  He's  all  right,  isn't  he?  " 

"  Who?  " 

I  indicated  Johnnie  with  a  discreet  jerk  of 'the 
head. 

She  nodded.  She  had  been  watching  him  in- 
23  347 


THE    GLIMPSE 


tently,  and  listening,  but  with  the  detached,  impar- 
tial mien  of  a  Chief  Justice. 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  go  and  take  his  cup;  he's  fin- 
ished .  .  .  Will  you?  " 

She  brought  her  legs  and  back  into  a  straight 
line,  and  slid  down  and  obeyed. 

"  May  I  take  your  cup?  "  she  asked  him. 

He  was  still  standing. 

"  That's  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said.  "  I  was 
just  going  to  put  it  on  the  mantelpiece.  Will  you 
put  it  on  the  mantelpiece?  "  He  gave  her  the 
cup. 

"  I  can't  reach,"  she  piped. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  and  lifted  her,  the  cup  rat- 
tling in  his  saucer  as  he  did  so;  and  she  reached  the 
mantelpiece. 

She  laughed  shortly,  for  a  sign  that  she  was  pre- 
pared to  accept  him  provisionally  on  his  merits. 
And  within  half  a  minute  they  were  seated  on  the 
same  chair.  Mary's  relief  was  childlike,  painful  in 
its  obviousness. 

Soon  afterwards  Mary  announced  that  she  must 
go,  on  account  of  Edith.  She  was  content,  and  she 
wanted  to  depart  in  the  mood  of  contentment.  She 
felt  no  doubt  her  sensations  sufficed  for  one  day. 
Johnnie  suggesed  that  he  and  I  should  drive  them 
to  the  station  and  then  take  a  turn  in  the  park.  The 

348 


THE   LOVER    AND    THE   MOTHER 

ladies,  with  equal  primness,  retired  to  make  each 
other  ready. 

Johnnie  and  I  stood  silent  together. 

"  Look  here,  man!  "  he  said  suddenly.  "  I'm 
not  going  to  say  anything  to  you  in  the  sympa- 
thetic line.  Not  necessary,  and  I  can't  do  it!  You 
know  me,  and  I  know  you.  And  that's  enough. 
Eh?" 

I  assented  with  a  gesture. 

I  was  startled  by  a  little  wave  of  emotion  that 
expressed  itself  by  a  touch  of  his  hand  on  my 
shoulder. 

:'  Perhaps  some  day  we  may  talk  about  things," 
he  muttered.  "  But  it'll  have  to  come  by  itself." 

Undoubtedly  he  was  profoundly  moved. 

"  Yes,"  I  said. 


CHAPTER    XL 

THE  DISAPPEARANCE 

AT  half  past  six  in  the  morning  as  usual,  I 
went  forth  out  of  the  house,  by  the  little 
wicket  set  in  the  large  double  portals,  and  idled  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  street  until  the  Fontainebleau 
postman,  chiefly  attired  in  pale  linen,  came  down 
past  the  Palace  from  the  head  post  office. 

This  transmigration  to  Fontainebleau  seems  sud- 
'den  to  you,  and  it  seemed  sudden  to  me.  The  fact 
was  that,  in  my  indifference,  I  had  become  the 
sport  of  Mary.  August  was  nearly  upon  us,  and 
Mary,  owing  to  a  variety  of  causes,  had  made  no 
definite  arrangements  for  her  holiday  and  Edith's. 
In  the  discussion  of  this  question,  on  our  way  to 
the  station  after  my  first  meeting  as  a  widower  with 
Johnnie  Hulse,  Johnnie  had  happened  to  mention 
Fontainebleau.  During  his  stay  in  Paris  he  had 
been  down  to  Fontainebleau,  and  had  seen  a  fur- 
nished house  there  which  was  picturesque  and  in- 
convenient. It  stood,  the  next  habitation  to  the 
Palace,  adjoining  the  Palace,  and  was  to  be  had 
for  sixty  pounds  for  the  season.  Mary  appeared 

350 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE 


to  decide  in  an  instant,  in  the  cab  itself,  that  she 
would  take  that  house,  if  it  was  still  available. 
Whenever  she  was  with  Johnnie,  a  sort  of  reckless- 
ness, a  mood  of  brusque  resolutions,  took  posses- 
sion of  her;  and  certainly  what  he  said  had  a 
strange  influence  over  her.  It  chanced  that  neither 
she  nor  I  had  b.een  to  Fontainebleau.  Therefore  I 
was  to  accompany  her.  A  change  was  imperative 
for  me,  I  was  told.  Moreover,  Edith  had  a  French 
nurse.  (She  had  already  had  a  German  and  was 
soon  to  have  an  Italian  attendant,  so  that  she 
might  be  talkative  in  the  principal  European 
tongues  before  ever  hearing  the  sinister  word 
"  syntax.")  This  nurse  would  obviously  be  very 
useful  on  a  French  holiday.  Further,  this  nurse 
was  a  good  creature,  and  it  would  be  a  pleasure  to 
give  her  pleasure,  and  she  could  not  fail  to  be  de- 
lighted by  the  prospect  of  a  visit  to  her  native  land. 
Everything  conspired.  By  the  time  we  reached  the 
station  we  were  practically,  in  Mary's  mind,  al- 
ready installed  at  Fontainebleau.  I  acquiesced. 
It  diverted  me  to  see  Mary  feverish  and  precipi- 
tate. At  the  station  Johnnie  telegraphed  to  Fon- 
tainebleau. In  six  days  we  were  at  Fontainebleau, 
together  with  our  cutlery  and  other  furnishings  of 
a  furnished  house. 

It  seemed  a  large  mysterious  house,  from  the 


THE    GLIMPSE 


street.  To  the  left  of  the  double  portals  the  brass 
and  copper  utensils  of  the  kitchen  gleamed  through 
a  window.  To  the  right  was  the  dining  room;  on 
the  first  floor  a  whole  row  of  windows,  and  above 
that  a  series  of  very  picturesque  red  dormers!  The 
double  portals,  richly  carved,  gave  access  to  the 
porte  oochere,  a  kind  of  tunnel  cut  through  the 
house,  and  at  the  other  extremity  of  the  tunnel  was 
a  courtyard  leading  to  a  garden.  The  high  wall  of 
the  Palace  itself  shut  in  the  garden  on  one  side, 
and  on  the  other  were  tall,  yellowish-green  and 
bluish-green  trees  that  curved  upward  and  formed 
a  canopy  in  the  sky.  From  the  garden,  too,  the 
house  seemed  large,  with  its  rows  of  varied  win- 
dows. And  yet  on  examination  it  would  only 
yield  the  dining  room,  a  large  bedroom  over  the 
dining  room  for  Mary  and  the  child,  and  some  un- 
charted miles  of  passages  that  ended  occasionally 
in  a  cubicle  or  so.  There  was  no  drawing-room, 
but  there  were  two  odd  tiny  rooms  that  could  only 
be  reached  from  the  courtyard.  One  of  these  Mary 
denominated  the  bathroom,  for  there  was  no  bath- 
room and  no  bath.  Happily  the  bath  house  was  in 
the  same  street.  Edith's  keenest  delight  was  to 
see  the  bath  come  along  the  street,  in  a  pony-cart, 
surrounded  by  copper  pails  full  of  hot  water. 
Never  before  had  Edith  seen  a  bath  in  motion.  Be- 

352 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE 


tween  us  we  must  have  taxed  the  resources  of  the 
bath  house  to  the  utmost.  The  bath-man  in  his 
striped  apron  seemed  to  be  eternally  crossing  our 
courtyard  with  a  copper  bucket  at  the  end  of  one 
arm,  and  the  other  arm  sticking  out  horizontally  in 
the  air.  And  the  cost  was  ruinous.  Mary  was  even 
more  childlike  than  Edith.  She  found  the  house 
perfect,  and  each  discovery  of  inconvenience  was 
a  joy.  Within  a  week  we  felt  as  though  we  had 
been  living  in  that  house  through  ages  of  endless 
summer.  Johnnie  Hulse  visited  the  house  in  or- 
der, as  it  was  said,  to  satisfy  himself  that  we  had 
fallen  on  our  feet.  He  was  now  openly  and  ob- 
viously in  love  with  Mary.  He  stayed  three  days, 
and  ate  every  meal  with  us,  and  then  without  any 
warning  to  me  he  departed.  I  knew  not  what  had 
passed  between  him  and  Mary  but  I  knew  that 
something  had  passed.  So  far  as  I  was  aware,  he 
did  not  write  to  her,  nor  she  to  him. 

Now  on  this  morning,  which  was  a  Sunday,  the 
linen-clad  postman  gave  me  one  letter  only — not 
even  a  newspaper — and  the  letter  was  addressed  to 
Mary  in  Johnnie  Hulse's  hand.  I  sent  it  upstairs 
on  her  coffee-tray.  And  then,  after  I  had  my  cof- 
fee in  the  garden,  I  started  for  my  walk  about  the 
town. 

In  the  Rue  Grande  black-aproned  girls  were  ar- 
353 


THE   GLIMPSE 


ranging  picture  postcards,  toys,  pens,  crockery, 
carvings,  glass — all  kinds  of  worthless  souvenirs  of 
the  pleasure  city — on  benches  in  front  of  the  big 
shops;  soldiers  were  hurrying  to  and  fro  on  er- 
rands; an  immense  dustcart  with  its  bell  and  shout- 
ings passed  from  door  to  door;  the  newspaper  tram 
jolted  along  full  of  newspapers  as  fresh  as  fruit ;  a 
few  people  emerged  from  the  church,  whose  bell 
was  ringing.  The  sun  was  slanting  strongly  upon 
the  early  and  fresh  calmness  of  the  town,  to  change 
the  confused  opalescent  coloring  of  its  vistas  into 
crude  whites  and  yellows.  Under  a  deep  blue  sky 
the  day  announced  itself  as  torrid  and  windless. 
And  the  workers  were  already  shrinking  from  its 
menace.  Awnings  began  to  flutter  out  everywhere 
like  bunting.  I  crossed  the  town  and  dived  into 
the  thick,  encircling  forest.  The  letter  occupied 
my  thoughts.  It  was  as  if  I  still  carried  it  in  my 
pocket.  My  impression  had  been  that  Johnnie 
Hulse  and  Mary  had  passed  through  a  more  or 
less  emotional  interview  at  which  she  had  enjoined 
him  to  leave  her  and  not  to  write.  For  if  he  had 
not  been  advised  or  commanded  to  refrain  from 
writing  he  would  assuredly  have  written  earlier. 
But  I  could  only  guess.  Between  .Mary  and  me, 
Johnnie  had  scarcely  been  referred  to.  Each  of  us 
was  afraid  of  the  sound  of  his  name.  And  the  si- 

354 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE 


lence  concerning  him  was  ominous  of  dramatic 
events  passing  in  secret,  hidden  from  me.  The 
letter  exasperated  my  curiosity. 

When  I  returned  through  the  town,  the  Rue 
Grande  had  awakened  into  full  activity.  The  black- 
aproned  girls  were  standing  at  attention  before  the 
wares  of  their  masters.  Brakes  loaded  with  bright 
frocks  rattled  heavily  about.  The  electric  cars 
threaded  past  each  other  at  the  loops.  From  the 
open  doors  of  the  church  came  the  distant  gleam 
of  stained  glass  and  the  sound  of  an  organ.  High 
mass  was  in  process.  And  everywhere  in  the 
streets  the  ground  spaces  were  divided  into  sharp- 
ly contrasting  areas  of  glaring  shine  and  dark 
shadow.  At  our  double  portals  in  the  secluded 
Rue  d'Avon  Mary  and  Edith,  dressed  with  superla- 
tive elaboration,  each  under  a  sunshade,  and  seem- 
ing to  be  inordinately  typical  of  the  British  race, 
stood  waiting.  It  was  for  me  that  they  were  wait- 
ing. 

We  had  been  advised  that  high  mass  at  the 
Church  of  St.  Louis  in  the  height  of  the  season  was 
a  "  sight,"  a  spectacle  comprising  a  collection  of 
elegances  and  absurdities  from  Paris  and  elsewhere, 
that  was  worthy  to  be  seen  by  Britons.  And  on  the 
previous  evening  it  had  been  arranged  that  we 
should  assist  at  the  sortie. 

355 


THE   GLIMPSE 


There  was  self-consciousness  in  Mary's  glance. 

"  So  you  are  going?  "  I  said. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Mary,  rather  curtly,  as  though 
my  idea  that  anything  could  have  occurred  to  alter 
her  mind  was  offensive  to  her.  "  We  shall  be 
late." 

"  Oh,  no!  "  I  said.  "  It's  only  a  quarter  to  eleven, 
and  it  won't  be  over  till  eleven.  A  quarter  of  an 
hour  of  it  will  be  all  you'll  need." 

During  the  brief  stroll  to  the  church,  not  a  word 
from  Mary  as  to  the  letter!  Nevertheless  the  fact 
of  the  letter  was  written  all  over  her  face,  and  it 
came  out  also  in  all  the  tones  of  her  voice.  Edith 
detected  the  unusual,  absorbed  it  and  repro- 
duced it. 

The  church  was  full  nearly  to  the  doors.  Across 
a  long  perspective  of  heads  and  diminishing  arches 
we  saw  a  resplendent  inclosure  in  which  brocaded 
figures  attitudinized  in  ritual  before  a  lofty  altar 
upon  which  garishly  tinted  windows  threw  shades 
of  color.  A  bell  rang  in  the  distance  occasionally, 
and  an  organ  sounded  brokenly  from  somewhere, 
or  vague  voices  echoed  in  the  hushed  spaces  of  the 
interior.  In  front  of  us  stood  an  enormous  hatted 
and  uniformed  beadle  with  a  mighty  staff.  An 
expectant  silence,  and  then  the  beadle  imperiously 
crashed  his  staff  on  the  stone  floor  and  every  head 

356 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE 


was  bent  in  obedience  to  the  signal.  The  bell  rang 
distantly.  I  looked  around  in  search  of  the  ele- 
gances, and  saw  none.  The  congregation  was  di- 
verse, and  in  a  corner  were  the  white  wings  of  nuns' 
caps  picturesquely  floating  over  the  gray  frocks  of 
an  orphanage;  but  I  could  discern  no  exaggeration 
of  fashion.  Then  a  woman  swept  into  the  church, 
followed  by  a  little  collared  boy  and  a  stoutish  man 
with  a  rosette  in  his  buttonhole.  Here  was  fash- 
ion! .The  dark  hat,  the  waistline,  the  fall  of  the 
pale  skirt,  the  cosmetics,  spoke  it.  Every  contour 
spoke  it.  The  woman  went  as  in  a  trance  to  the  ves- 
sel of  holy  water,  dipped  her  finger,  touched  with 
her  wet  finger  the  finger  of  the  boy,  and  simul- 
taneously they  made  on  themselves  the  sign  of  the 
cross.  The  gesture  was  accomplished  with  the  swift, 
absent-minded  perfunctoriness  that  only  comes  of 
years  and  years  of  use.  She  was  a  little  hot,  and 
she  glanced  frowningly  at  her  husband,  who  stood 
apart.  She  was  extravagantly  Parisian.  She 
might  have  come  down  from  Paris  in  a  bandbox 
opened  only  at  the  church  door.  She  was  worth  at 
least  a  hundred  pounds  as  she  stood.  She  put  her 
lorgnon  to  her  eyes  so  conscious  of  perfection  and 
stared  haughtily  a  moment  at  the  mysteries  of  the 
altar.  Then  with  a  whispered  word  to  her  hus- 
band and  a  tug  at  her  child's  hand,  she  was  off 

357 


THE   GLIMPSE 


again,  having  shriveled  everybody  within  range  of 
the  disdain  of  those  hard  eyes.  She  was  off  again, 
in  her  pilgrimage  through  eternity.  I  alone,  per- 
haps, knew  where  she  was  going  and  to  what  glories 
she  would  rise  when  she  had  escaped  from  the  gro- 
tesqueness  of  her  prison.  Mary  lifted  her  eyebrows 
to  me  scarcely  perceptibly,  to  indicate  her  opinion 
that  after  that  our  visit  to  the  mass  could  not  be 
deemed  vain. 

"  Where  is  Edith?  "  she  murmured  suddenly. 

Behind  us  was  a  little  postern,  'showing  the  lower 
steps  of  a  winding  stair.  The  person  least  experi- 
enced in  Edith  would  have  known  that  the  stair  had 
tempted  her  too  strongly.  I  climbed  the  stair,  and 
came  out  at  the  top  upon  a  gallery  where  a  young 
woman  in  a  white  blouse  was  blowing  an  organ, 
and  perspiring,  and  where  a  number  of  little  boys 
in  black  pinafores  and  belts  sat  uncomfortably  on 
benches.  The  secret  machinery  of  the  temple's 
rite!  Edith  was  there  also,  ready  to  go  up  even 
higher,  had  she  not  seen  me.  She  offered  her  hand 
in  token  of  contrition,  and  we  remained  a  few  mo- 
ments looking  down  from  the  upper  masonry  of 
the  structure  at  the  parterre  of  hats  and  the  genu- 
flecting priests  and  acolytes  in  the  far  distance. 

When  we  reached  the  ground,  we  both  saw 
Johnnie  Hulse  by  the  side  of  Mary,  who  was  whis- 

358 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE 


pering  to  him,  apparently  angry,  certainly  angry. 
He  had  a  motorist's  peaked  cap  in  his  hand.  She 
ceased  to  speak  as  she  saw  us.  There  was  a  new 
silence  in  the  church.  Johnnie  shook  hands  with 
me  silently,  and  he  smiled  at  Edith,  whose  face  was 
moveless.  We  could  not  converse  at  the  crisis  of 
the  mass.  The  drama  of  our  lives  seemed  to  hesi- 
tate while  the  rite  of  the  temple  was  being  fulfilled, 
and  we  seemed  to  me  awaiting  in  fear  its  resump- 
tion. 

My  foreboding,  then,  was  justified.  The  letter 
had  warned  Mary  of  Johnnie's  coming,  and  she  had 
ignored  it.  He  must  have  arrived  at  the  house 
soon  after  our  departure,  and  followed  us. 

The  service  was  over,  and  we  passed  out  from 
the  cool  darkness  into  the  bright  furnace  of  the 
street.  Opposite,  the  black-aproned  girls  were 
striving  by  their  charm  to  sell  postcards  and  views 
of  the  Palace  painted  on  irregular  slices  of  wood 
from  which  the  bark  had  not  been  removed.  A 
small  orchestra  was  playing  dances  at  a  cafe.  The 
pavements  were  everywhere  busy,  and  the  sun  was 
the  aversion  of  all  eyes.  The  season  of  Fontaine- 
bleau  was  at  full.  We  were  under  an  obligation,  it 
appeared,  .to  go  into  the  neighboring  confection- 
er's. After  high  mass  no  visitor  who  respected  him- 
self could  omit  to  eat  a  brioche  or  a  cake  at  the  con- 

359 


THE    GLIMPSE 


fectioner's.  The  shop,  odorous  with  fresh  pastry, 
was  already  full  of  women  and  men  that  had  set- 
tled on  its  contents  like  locusts.  The  confectioner, 
in  her  virgin  apron  with  its  artificial  waistline  that 
curved  downward  below  the  umbilical  region,  sat. 
on  a  throne  trusting  to  the  honesty  of  religionists. 
Mary  did  not  speak,  and  even  Edith  was  languid 
concerning  cakes.  Johnnie  and  I  had  to  make  con- 
versation. 

'  You're  coming  to  lunch,  of  course,"  I  said. 

"  No,  I  can't." 

"Oh!  But  look  here!"  I  protested.  "That's 
absurd.  What  are  you  here  for?  " 

I  glanced  at  Mary.    No  relenting  sign  from  her! 

"  Really,  old  chap,  I  can't  stay  for  lunch!  "  said 
Johnnie  awkwardly. 

I  thought  that  Mary  was  achieving  rudeness.  It 
was  incredible  that  she  should  not  second  my  invi- 
tation. Nevertheless  she  maintained  her  silence, 
save  to  Edith.  When  we  got  out  of  the  shop,  the 
congregation  from  the  church  had  entirely  van- 
ished, so  that  in  our  emotional  disturbance  we  had 
missed  seeing  the  piquancies  of  it. 

''  Well,  good  morning,"  said  Johnnie  queerly, 
and  held  out  his  hand  to  Mary. 

"  Good  morning,"  she  responded,  with  a  grim 
compression  of  the  lips. 

360 


THE   DISAPPEARANCE 


I  made  no  further  attempt  to  pierce  the  mystery 
of  Johnnie's  arrival  and  of  his  departure.  I  decided 
to  pretend  that  I  perceived  nothing  extraordinary 
in  his  sudden  apparition.  Mary's  icy  resentment, 
his  refusal  of  my  hospitality,  and  the  curt  leave-tak- 
ing. He  quitted  us,  and  no  one  mentioned  him 
afterwards.  We  lunched,  for  the  benefit  of  the 
servants,  and  Mary  and  I  kept  up  a  conversation 
the  sole  end  of  which  was  to  convince  each  other 
by  suavity  of  tone  that  our  mutual  sympathy  was 
not  merely  unimpaired  but  strengthened. 

After  lunch  Edith  was  put  to  bed  as  usual,  and  I 
also  went  to  my  bedroom  on  the  second  floor.  It 
was  not  an  afternoon  for  exertion,  either  physical 
or  mental.  I  slept  rather  heavily  without  meaning 
or  hoping  to  do  so.  When  I  awoke — with  only  one 
idea  in  my  head,  the  idea  of  tea — I  wandered  about 
the  ground  floor  of  the  house,  the  courtyard  and 
the  garden,  which  was  beginning  to  be  shadowed. 
I  wished,  as  I  often  wished,  to  negotiate  with 
Mary  for  an  immediate  tea.  The  cook,  an  ar- 
rangement of  blue  and  red,  emerged  informally 
from  her  echoing  kitchen  to  inquire  into  my  un- 
easiness. 

"  Is  madame  in  her  bedroom?  "  I  asked. 

"  Madame  is  gone  out.  With  a  gentleman  in  an 
automobile.  Did  not  monsieur  know?  " 

361 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"When  will  she  return?" 
"  Madame  said  nothing." 
'  You  would  be  very  amiable  to  make  tea  at 
once,"  I  retorted  to  this  blow. 
Edith  and  I  had  tea  in  the  garden. 


CHAPTER    XLI 

AT  DARK 

MOTHER  has  gone  with  Captain  Hulse," 
Edith  remarked  suddenly. 

"Did  she  tell  you?" 

"  No,  uncle." 

That  was  all  the  child  said.  She  was  not  like  a 
child  now.  She  had  not  the  expression  of  a  child, 
nor  the  gestures.  She  ate  and  drank  like  a  wom- 
an. She  suffered,  and  her  suffering  was  translated 
into  an  exaggerated  precision  and  carefulness  of 
movement.  She  suffered  without  understanding. 
Jealousy  was  her  affliction;  jealousy  of  Hulse, 
whom  she  liked.  She  could  have  explained  noth- 
ing, perhaps;  but  she  could  feel,  and  she  could  fear. 
She  was  wounded. 

'  We  can't  be  expected  to  stop  in  all  afternoon 
because  mother  has  run  away,"  I  said.  "  Suppose 
we  go  for  a  walk  round  by  the  Palace,  just  you 
and  I?" 

She  assented,  with  an  air  as  if  to  say  that  if  her 
mother  chose  to  be  independent  she  also  must  be 
independent:  a  little  revolt  in  her.  She  stood  pas- 
24  363 


THE    GLIMPSE 


sive  like  an  idol,  under  the  great  porch,  while  her 
nurse,  kneeling,  smoothed  out  creases  in  the  gos- 
samer white  frock  and  straightened  the  stockings. 
We  strolled  slowly  through  the  shade  of  vast  court- 
yards and  past  the  innumerable  windows  of  facades 
that  were  a  rampart  against  the  sun,  and  under 
archways  and  tunnels  with  long  glimpses  of  flow- 
ered gardens  and  water  shaking  in  the  heavy  sun- 
shine. There  were  crowds  of  people.  The  monu- 
ment of  centuries  of  desire  forever  thwarting  itself, 
the  relic  of  futile  and  tragic  self-aggrandizement, 
was  so  wonderful  and  prodigious  that  it  drew  the 
curious  from  the  five  quarters  of  the  world.  It  was 
so  immense,  so  permanent,  that  it  defied  even  the 
strong  descendants  of  its  victims  to  rise  and  de- 
stroy it.  It  imposed.  Impossible  to  believe,  in  face 
of  that  pile  the  bricks  of  whose  gigantic  chimneys 
alone  would  have  built  a  town  for  philosophers, 
that  desire  was  woe  and  self-aggrandizement  a  stu- 
pidity! The  error  persisted.  I  thought  of  the  gen- 
erations of  occupants  of  that  chateau  whose  fate  it 
had  been  to  illustrate  supremely  the  unnatural  folly 
of  egotism  for  the  instruction  of  generations  that 
would  not  yet  be  born  for  hundreds  of  years.  A 
fate  surely  deserving  sympathy!  And,  wondering 
where  in  that  particular  moment  they  were,  in  what 
condition,  in  what  captivity  or  freedom,  I  spent  on 

364 


AT    DARK 


them  my  sympathy.  And  there  was  the  primly 
trotting  child,  in  her  fragile  and  spotless  frock, 
fresh  from  the  freedom  of  another  plane,  newly  im- 
prisoned in  the  old  error,  the  prey  of  her  own  ego- 
ism; silently  and  proudly  fretting  because  she  could 
not  monopolize  the  fellow-creature,  her  mother! 
And  I  could  offer  no  enlightenment  to  the  child;  to 
enlighten  would  be  a  hopeless  enterprise.  But  I 
could  visit  her  invisible  radiance  with  my  soothing 
thoughts. 

As,  on  our  return,  we  struck  into  the  Rue 
d'Avon,  we  tried  to  reassure  one  another. 

"  Mother's  certain  to  be  back  by  this  time." 

'  Yes.  Long  ago.  She'll  think  we've  got  lost 
ourselves." 

But  we  were  neither  of  us  as  sure  as  our  words. 
We  were  afraid  that  Mary  might  still  be  away. 
And  our  apprehension  was  justified.  We  resumed 
our  pretense  of  tranquillity.  I,  personally,  was  in  no 
way  alarmed  for  Mary's  safety.  I  knew  that  she 
must  be  with  Johnnie  Hulse,  and  that  Johnnie  had 
control  of  an  automobile.  But  I  presaged  no  ac- 
cident nor  contretemps.  What  bit  me  was  sheer 
curiosity.  What  baffled  me  was  my  perfect  inabil- 
ity to  explain  to  myself  my  sister's  vagary.  When 
the  hour  of  Edith's  bedtime  came,  we  agreed  that 
she  should  stay  up  for  dinner  and  that  if  after  din- 

365 


THE    GLIMPSE 


ner  her  mother  had  not  arrived  she  should  go  to 
bed.  She  went  to  bed  at  half  past  eight,  still  very 
silent,  and  contemptuous  of  her  nurse's  facile  com- 
fortings.  I  was  now  conscious  of  a  certain  alarm. 
Could  there  after  all  have  been  an  accident?  The 
household  was  deeply  perturbed  within  itself.  I 
went  out  into  the  town,  to  look  for  the  face  of 
Johnnie  Hulse  over  a  steering-wheel.  I  inquired 
for  him  at  the  hotel  where  he  had  previously  stayed. 
Nothing  was  known  there.  I  walked  up  and  down 
the  Rue  Grande  in  the  dusk.  The  flagons  of  the 
apothecaries  threw  reds  and  greens  across  the 
tram  lines,  and  the  trams  passed  like  cages  of  light. 
Outside  the  restaurants  and  cafes  satisfied  diners 
were  smoking  and  drinking.  The  same  dances 
were  being  played  in  the  large  cafe  at  the  corner, 
and  next  to  it,  in  front  of  the  big  shops,  the  black- 
aproned  girls,  interestingly  pallid  and  languorous 
after  thirteen  hours  of  burning  pavement,  were  still 
by  solicitation  disposing  of  souvenirs.  I  returned 
home  again. 

"  Has  madame  come?  " 

"  No,  monsieur." 

"  You  can  go  to  bed." 

I  sat  in  the  garden  under  the  waving  plumes  of 
an  acacia  and  watched  the  onset  of  night  until  the 
garden  front  of  the  house  was  black  save  for  the 

366 


AT    DARK 


glimmer  where  Edith  lay.  No  sound,  except  the 
mysterious  brushing  of  the  unseen  acacia  against 
the  high  wall!  Trees  and  sky  were  mingled  in  a 
violet  gloom.  I  pondered  upon  the  past  and  upon 
the  future.  Then,  startling,  the  loud,  irregular 
clang  of  the  big  bell!  I  sprang  up.  It  was  she,  at 
last!  I  should  know  what  had  occurred  to  her!  I 
hurried  toward  the  house.  But  there  were  steps 
before  mine  in  the  blackness  of  the  porte-cochere. 
The  servant  also  had  kept  vigil.  I  heard  Mary's 
voice  anxious  and  hurried:  a  question  about  Edith; 
then  another  about  me.  A  lamp  was  brought  from 
the  kitchen.  She  saw  me. 

"  That  you,  Mary?  "  I  cried,  halting. 

She  came  out  to  me.  I  sat  down  in  the  cane 
armchair  which  I  had  just  left.  She  took  another 
similar  chair.  There  was  an  iron  garden  table  be- 
tween us.  She  leaned  back  in  the  chair,  tapping 
with  her  hands  on  its  arms  nervously.  I  could  not 
see  her  features  at  all  clearly.  What  I  saw  was  a 
pale  oval,  with  the  drapery  of  a  thin,  white  veil 
about  it,  and  below  that  a  vague  bodily  form.  A 
light  moved  under  the  porte-cochere,  and  the  serv- 
ants murmured  to  each  other.  Then  silence  and 
darkness  away  there  in  the  house. 

"Morrice!"  Mary  said.  "  I'm  engaged  to  be 
married  again." 

367 


THE    GLIMPSE 


My  heart  seemed  to  have  received  a  dizzying 
blow.  Yet  I  could  not  have  been  surprised.  It 
was,  really,  what  I  had  been  expecting. 

"  I  congratulate  you,  child,"  I  said. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  it's  happened  now,"  she  went 
on.  "  I  am,  truly!" 

"  But  why  on  earth  should  you  be  sorry?  " 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said  firmly,  as  if 
warning  me  against  the  unnecessary  trouble  of 
making  pretenses.  "So  soon  after  Inez's  death! 
Less  than  a  month!  Morrice,  I've  often  thought 
I'd  like  to  tell  you,  but  somehow  I've  never  been 
able  to — and  I  can,  to-night.  We'd  none  of  us 
any  idea  how  much  you  and  Inez  were  to  each 
other." 

I  said  nothing.  Nobody  knew  the  circumstances 
which  had  led  up  to  Inez's  death.  The  doctor  alone 
was  aware  that  my  seizure  had  been  the  result  of  a 
quarrel  with  Inez,  and  the  doctor  was  the  very 
grave  of  secrets.  The  priest  knew,  of  course;  but 
the  priest  could  not  be  counted  among  mankind. 
The  rest  of  the  world  undoubtedly  thought  that 
Inez  had  killed  herself  from  pure  grief  at  my  death. 
Even  Johnnie  probably  assumed  that  grief  had  en- 
tered largely  into  her  motive.  ...  In  discussing 
the  death  with  Mary,  if  ever  they  had  discussed  it, 
he  had  probably  been  in  a  position  to  agree  sin- 

368 


AT   DARK 


cerely  with  Mary's  proposition  that  Morrice  and 
Inez  had  cared  a  great  deal  more  for  one  another 
than  their  friends  had  suspected.  .  .  .  Yet  he  must 
have  had  strange,  strange  feelings  when  the  sub- 
ject of  Inez  came  up  between  him  and  Mary! 

"  Morrice,  I'm  frightfully  sorry  for  you,  and 
I'm  ashamed  of  letting  myself  be  engaged  now. 
But " 

"  I  know  how  you  feel,"  I  interrupted  her.  "  But 
it's  quite  wrong.  How  can  your  happiness  make 
me  unhappy?  You're  thinking  conventionally,  my 
child;  that's  what  you're  doing." 

"  I  may  be,"  she  said.  "  I  dare  say  I  am.  But  I 
can't  help  it.  And  I  couldn't  help  getting  en- 
gaged, either!  He's  too  strong  for  me!"  She 
sighed. 

"Who?    Johnnie?" 

"  Yes.  He's  much  too  strong  for  me.  There 
can't  be  many  more  men  like  him  in  the  world.  I 
never  thought  anyone  would  bear  me  down  when 
I'd  made  up  my  mind.  And  I  positively  had  made 
up  my  mind  that  nothing  should  happen  between 
us  two  for  at  least  three  months.  But  he's  borne 
me  down.  Did  you  hear  him  come  this  after- 
noon? " 

"  No." 

"  Well!  "  She  gave  a  short  laugh.  "  I  had  to 
369 


THE   GLIMPSE 


go  out  with  him,  or  I  don't  know  what  wouldn't 
have  happened." 

:e  Where  have  you  been  to?  " 

I  could  dimly  discern  her  head  shaking.  "  I 
don't  know!  "  she  murmured  in  a  fatigued  voice. 
"I  don't  know!  In  the  forest.  Everywhere!  Mor- 
rice,  I'm  broken!  I'm  crushed  and  there's  no  fight 
left  in  me."  She  laughed  again. 

"  You  went  off  in  his  car?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  where  is  he  now,  may  one  ask?  " 

"  He's  gone  back  to  Paris.  We  shan't  see  him 
till  we  get  to  England  again.  I  did  insist  on  that, 
anyway."  Her  tone  showed  a  little  triumph. 

"Why?" 

"  Well,"  she  said.  "  I  did!  That's  all.  I  had  to 
have  my  own  way  in  something.  You'll  never 
know  all  we've  been  through  this  mortal  day,"  she 
continued,  fanning  herself  with  a  handkerchief. 
"  Nobody  ever  will.  Unless  sometime  or  other 
Johnnie  takes  it  into  his  head  to  tell  you." 

"  There's  only  one  thing  I  want  to  know,"  I  said. 
"  Is  it  all  right?  " 

"  Oh!  Morrice!  "  she  sighed.  "  Don't  ask  me! 
I'm  so  happy!  So  is  he,  I  do  believe!  " 

The  simple  gushing  candor  of  the  outburst  was 
girlish,  quite  startlingly  so  in  a  woman  of  Mary's 


AT   DARK 


age,  experience,  and  temperament.  Never  had  I 
heard  such  passionate  tones  from  her  lips. 

"  Give  me  your  hand,  then,  child/'  I  said.  I, 
too,  was  unwontedly  moved. 

My  hand  groped  for  hers. 

"  Nothing  will  be  said  to  anybody  else  for  at 
least  three  months,"  said  Mary.  "  That's  most 
clearly  understood.  It's  all  very  well  to  talk  about 
convention.  There's  got  to  be  some  convention- 
ality, for  the  benefit  of  the  world." 

(Where,  I  thought,  was  the  ironic  Mary?) 

"  What  about  the  kid,  then?  "  I  asked 

Mary  paused.  "  I've  thought  of  that.  I  thought 
— supposing  you  were  to  give  her  an  idea?  " 

The  mother  abruptly  turned  her  head.  The 
steady  night  light  faintly  illuminated  the  window 
of  the  bedroom. 

"  I  must  go  and  look  at  her.  Give  me  your 
matches,  will  you?  " 

I  remained  alone  in  the  garden,  with  the  trees 
softly  swishing  their  branches  against  the  high 
wall.  I  was  aware  of  a  considerable  agitation  with- 
in myself.  The  thing,  then,  was  done.  Do  you 
surmise  what  I  could  hear  in  the  heavy  silence  of 
the  night?  I  could  hear  the  cajoling  voice  of  John- 
nie Hulse  saying  to  my  wife:  "Will  she  be  at 
Brondesbury  to-morrow  at  three?  "  and  Inez's  re- 


THE    GLIMPSE 


ply:  "Yes/*  Little  more  than  a  month  ago,  that 
rendezvous  that  destiny  had  interfered  with!  And 
now  she  was  dead.  And  he  was  betrothed  to  an- 
other woman!  The  certainty  that  none  but  him- 
self knew  of  his  interrupted  intrigue  with  Inez  had 
strengthened  the  temptation  to  which  Mary's  pas- 
sion had  subjected  him.  The  intrigue  with  Inez 
had  been  an  error,  an  idle  and  vicious  caprice. 
He  had  recognized  that,  I  felt,  before  her  death.  He 
had  regretted  it.  Destiny,  in  cutting  it  short,  had 
been  very  kind  to  him,  had  made  possible  for  him  a 
finer  and  honester  future.  Was  I  to  be  unkind 
where  destiny  had  smiled?  Was  I  to  punish  where 
destiny  had  forgiven?  Was  I  even  privately  to  re- 
sent? Was  I  not  to  be  loyal  to  the  secret?  Johnnie 
and  Mary  were  caught  together  in  the  spell  of  a 
tremendous  enchantment.  It  had  followed  Mary, 
and  it  had  forced  him  after  her  to  overtake  her; 
they  were  its  victims.  No  more  than  to  Edith 
would  enlightenment  have  been  possible  to  them. 
They  demanded  and  needed  naught  but  sympathy. 
.  .  .  What  a  marriage!  John  Hulse  a  stepfather! 
The  obdurate  Mary  striving  to  mold  herself  to  the 
shape  of  John  Hulse!  And  Johnnie,  accustomed  to 
the  softness  of  voluptuous  acquiescences  in  women, 
schooling  himself  to  acknowledge  the  refusing 
moral  independence  of  an  equal!  A  marriage  ex- 

372 


AT    DARK 


ceedingly  perilous,  that  might  develop  as  well  into 
a  disaster  as  into  a  miraculous  good  fortune.  They 
must  accept  the  danger.  They  and  their  friends 
must  face  it.  They  could  not  deny  fate.  I  would 
not  have  had  them  deny  fate.  I  respected  too 
highly  the  qualities  of  power  and  intellectual  sin- 
cerity in  both  of  them  to  lack  faith  for  them  and 
in  them.  Ijhad  indeed  a  sure  faith  that  this  ephem- 
eral episode  of  their  union,  a  point  of  fleeting  con- 
tact between  the  separate  eternities  that  lay  behind 
and  those  that  lay  in  front,  would  not  cause  them 
too  much  regret  when  they  looked  down  on  it  from 
freedom.  The  desire  which  was  to  unite  them 
would  daily  provide  its  own  antidote  of  discipline. 
I  understood  them  both  deeply,  past  words. 

A  brighter  illumination  had  now  succeeded  to 
the  night  light  behind  the  open  window  where 
Edith  lay.  I  could  hear  the  faintest  far  murmur  of 
a  voice.  Later,  the  light  went  out  entirely. 


CHAPTER    XLII 

THE  ATTITUDE 

JOHNNIE'S  life  seemed  to  be  always  agitated 
and  violent.  We  had  scarcely  had  five  days  of 
quietude  after  the  upheavals  and  flights  of  the  Sun- 
day, when  word  came  that  he  was  ill  in  bed.  The 
envelope  was  addressed  to  Mary  in  a  strange  hand, 
and  within  were  a  few  vague  penciled  sentences 
written  by  Johnnie  himself.  Mary  was  thrown  into 
alarm,  chiefly  by  the  significant  fact  that  Johnnie 
had  not  found  energy  to  address  his  own  envelope. 
The  illness  must,  then,  be  serious.  Like  most  capa- 
ble women,  Mary  distrusted  all  nursing  except  her 
own.  She  feared  gravely  for  the  bachelor  at  the 
mercy  of  hirelings.  In  the  course  of  the  morning 
she  departed  for  Paris,  to  catch  the  afternoon  boat- 
train  for  England.  She  went  alone.  The  matter 
was  urgent;  she  must  satisfy  herself  about  Johnnie 
that  very  day.  She  was  regretting  now  that  she 
had  exiled  him  from  Fontainebleau.  Why  had  she 
exiled  him?  She  did  not  know.  Nobody  could 
discover  a  logical  reason.  Perhaps  if  she  had  not 
exiled  him  he  would  not  have  fallen  ill. 

374 


THE   ATTITUDE 


I  was  left  in  charge  of  Edith.  This  infinitely  pre- 
cious possession  was  confided  to  me:  supreme  flat- 
tery. Mary  did  not  think  that  it  would  be  worth 
while  coming  back.  I  was  to  conclude  the  tenancy 
of  the  house  and  vacate  it  in  order,  and  bring  the 
multifarious  luggage,  the  French  nurse,  and  Edith 
safely  to  '"London.  Mary's  departure  seemed  to 
happen  in  a  moment,  as  her  departure  from  Lon- 
don had  happened.  Indeed,  since  her  passion  for 
Johnnie  had  fully  seized  her,  Mary  was  a  different 
woman;  often  girlish,  even  infantile,  and  noticeably 
precipitate  in  her  actions. 

The  intimacy  between  Edith  and  me  increased 
greatly  during  the  first  twenty-four  hours  of  Mary's 
absence.  Edith  was  sad;  but  she  made  it  clear  by 
gestures  and  tones  that  I  was  not  held  to  blame  for 
her  sadness.  She  desired  to  return  home  without 
delay.  I  consented.  In  any  event  I  should  have 
left  within  a  week  We  traveled  to  Paris,  after  tre- 
mendous and  intricate  preparations,  on  a  wet  after- 
noon. My  intention  was  to  pass  the  night  there 
and  proceed  to  London  the  next  day.  At  the  Hotel 
Meurice  she  and  her  nurse  had  two  rooms,  com- 
municating. It  was  the  first  time  that  Edith  had 
ever  had  the  exclusive  use  of  a  room.  She  received 
me  in  it,  politely  curbing  her  self-importance.  She 
was  much  older  than  I  was. 

375 


THE   GLIMPSE 


"  Uncle,"  she  said,  after  cautiously  shutting  the 
door  leading  to  the  other  room,  "  why  should 
mother  go  to  Captain  Hulse  because  he's  ill,  and 
leave  me  here?  Supposing  I  was  ill?  " 

Evidently  the  question  was  overripe  in  her  mind. 

"Well,"  I  replied,  "you  aren't  ill,  and  you 
mustn't  be.  Don't  forget  it's  your  mother's  birth- 
day to-morrow.  You  must  be  well  for  that." 

"  Is  it?  "  she  exclaimed.  "  When  shall  we  get 
home?  " 

"  Oh!  about  six  o'clock." 

"  To-morrow  night?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  And  will  mother  be  at  home  or  will  she  be  with 
Captain  Hulse?" 

"  I  hope  she'll  be  at  home.  I'm  going  to  write 
this  minute.  But  if  Captain  Hulse  was  very 
ill " 

"  You  mean  she  won't  be  at  home." 

I  had  not  definitely  promised  Mary  to  give  Edith 
an  "  idea  "  of  what  was  in  store  for  her,  but  I  had 
not  refused  to  do  so.  If  the  thing  was  to  be  done 
it  ought  to  be  done  before  she  saw  her  mother 
again,  and  time  was  short  now. 

"  Suppose,"  I  blurted  out,  "  suppose  your 
mother  were  to  decide  that  it  would  be  nice  for  you 
to  have  a  new  father,  and — it  was  Captain  Hulse? 

376 


THE   ATTITUDE 


You  do  like  him,  you  know.  And  he's  a  great 
friend  of  mine.  I  say,  suppose  she  were  to  de- 
cide." 

She  gazed  at  me  in  silence.  She  asked  for  no 
further  light.  She  put  no  babyish  questions.  Then 
the  curves  of  her  lips  began  to  change;  her  eyes 
filled,  and  she  burst  into  sobbing.  The  nurse 
opened  the  door  from  the  other  room.  I  waved 
the  woman  away,  and  took  Edith  in  my  arms  and 
sat  down  with  her.  She  was  certainly  the  victim  of 
the  circumstances  of  this  affair.  Johnnie  was  to  be 
introduced  into  her  home;  he  was  to  be  forcibly 
thrust  upon  her,  upsetting  the  delicate  balance  of 
her  existence.  It  was  she  who  would  have  to  ad- 
just herself.  For  years  and  years  she  would  be  com- 
pelled to  suffer  the  influences  of  Johnnie's  violent 
individuality.  They  might  be  good  for  her;  they 
would  assuredly  be  stimulative.  But  that  was  not 
the  point.  The  point  was  that  she  had  no  choice  in 
the  matter.  Various  risks  threatened  her.  At  best 
she  was  to  lose  the  monopoly  of  her  mother.  And 
she  could  only  submit. 

I  tried  to  comfort  her.    Then  I  said: 

"  Come!  If  you  go  on  like  this,  what  will  your 
mother  do?  " 

"  Let  me  get  my  handkerchief,"  she  said,  and 
slid  down.  "  I'm  not  crying  about — about  that. 

377 


THE   GLIMPSE 


I'm  very  glad — about  that."  She  wiped  her  eyes, 
sobbing  occasionally.  "  I'm  only  crying  because 
it's  mother's  birthday  to-morrow  and  I  shan't  see 
her  till  night,  and  perhaps  I  shan't  see  her  at  all. 
And  I  want  to  see  her  in  the  morning." 

I  quite  believed  that  she  had  persuaded  herself 
that  herein  was  the  sole  cause  of  her  grief. 

"  Pity,  isn't  it?  "  I  said.  "  But  I  can  promise 
you  you  shall  see  her  when  we  do  get  to  London." 

"  Can't  we  go  to-night.  When's  the  next  train?  " 

"  It's  not  like  going  to  Harrow,"  I  said. 
"  There  aren't  trains  every  half  hour." 

"  Aren't  there?  " 

"  No!    And  the  afternoon  train's  gone." 

"  When's  the  next?  " 

"  The  next  is  the  night  train.  You'd  be  travel- 
ing all  night." 

"  But  when  should  we  get  to  London?  " 

"  Before  six  o'clock  in  the  morning." 

"  Oh,  uncle!  "  she  exclaimed,  enraptured;  an  ap- 
peal in  her  eyes. 

I  had  engaged  the  rooms  at  the  hotel,  and  I  was 
aware  that  Mary  would  not  have  countenanced  the 
wild  project  of  a  night  journey  for  Edith.  But  I 
would  not  check  that  fine  impulse  of  Edith's  to- 
ward her  mother;  I  could  appreciate  her  subtle  dis- 
tinction between  greeting  her  mother  in  the  fresh 

378 


THE   ATTITUDE 


morning  of  her  mother's  birthday  and  greeting  her 
only  at  its  close. 

Thus  at  daybreak  we  were  nearing  England. 
The  voyage  had  begun  in  fair  weather  and  was 
ending  as  a  storm  rose;  but  Edith,  wrapped  from 
head  to  foot  in  a  rug,  slept  on  a  bench.  The  boat 
swirled  on  a  heaving,  slaty  sea  in  the  dusk.  In  the 
corners  of  the  sky  hung  a  few  expiring  stars  that 
the  ragged  clouds  had  not  covered  away.  And 
there  were  the  pale  cliffs,  jutting  pitifully  up  out  of 
the  menacing  Atlantic.  The  boat  approached  them 
with  rebellious  bows  that  lifted  and  fell  and  swerved 
and  were  constantly  corrected  by  the  watchful 
rudder.  The  lantern  on  her  mast  was  as  weak  as 
the  stars.  From  the  cliffs  there  ran  out  a  thin, 
dark  reef,  finished  with  another  expiring  light,  and 
we  ran  toward  this  reef.  One  felt  that  it  was  in- 
deed an  island  which  we  were  nearing;  scarcely 
even  an  island,  but  something  insecurely  anchored 
amid  the  eternal  threatenings  of  the  ocean, 
something  round  which  the  tempests  were  never 
still.  We  sidled  perilously  up  to  the  reef — a  tongue 
of  stone  and  wood  pushed  forth  audaciously  into 
the  sea  to  save  us.  A  cord,  a  mere  cord,  was 
thrown  to  us,  and  we  clung  to  the  shaking  reef. 
The  island  had  offered  us  such  shelter  as  it  could. 
Islanders  came  aboard  to  enhearten  us  in  the  windy 
25  379 


THE   GLIMPSE 


and  fatigued  dawn.  I  picked  up  Edith  and,  the 
nurse  following,  carried  her  across  a  plank,  and 
along  the  narrow  soaking  reef,  balancing  amid 
gusts.  And  islanders  with  fragments  of  white  chalk 
put  rough  mystical  marks  upon  our  goods  so  that 
we  might  pass.  Behind  a  small,  oblong  aperture 
a  wan  girl  with  fluffy  hair  stood  at  a  tiny  counter  to 
offer  us  beer  in  thick  glasses  and  tea  and  coffee  in 
cups  of  granite,  and  hunks  of  bread.  It  was  the 
gate  of  an  empire.  It  was  the  welcome  of  the 
greatest  empire.  I  yawned  and  smiled  and  yawned. 
I,  too,  was  an  islander. 

And  when  we  rolled  across  the  floor  of  roofs  into 
a  London  that  was  not  yet  awake  I  still  had  the 
sensation  of  being  on  an  island  insecurely  anchored 
in  a  great  sea.  We  were  all  huddled  together  on 
that  bit  of  turf  that  raised  its  breast  from  the  sea 
to  encounter  the  winds;  and  we  were  doing  what  we 
could;  and  we  called  the  episode  life.  We  called 
it  life,  this  recurring  moment  of  captivity  between 
vast  freedom.  .  .  .  Differences  of  class,  of  lot — 
what  were  they  in  the  immense  perspective?  We 
were  all  one.  The  eager  acuteness  of  my  sympa- 
thetic understanding  quickened  my  blood  and  made 
me  forget  fatigue.  Mary  was  at  the  station.  She 
had  been  up  all  night,  but  Johnnie  was  better.  She 
expressed  surprise  at  my  vigor,  I  watched  the 

380 


THE   ATTITUDE 


meeting  of  mother  and  child  with  joy.  I  compre- 
hended them,  in  all  the  secret  folds  of  their  emo- 
tion. I  succeeded  in  that  because  I  wanted  to  suc- 
ceed, because  my  joy  was  to  pour  myself  into  them 
and  spiritually  coalesce  with  them.  Such  was  my 
attitude.  I  did  not  know  what  my  activities  would 
be  during  the  remaining  years  of  the  episode  called 
life,  but  I  knew  that  by  an  intense  and  continual 
cultivation  of  this  attitude  toward  all  my  fellows  in 
the  episode,  I  should  avoid  unhappiness.  In  such 
preparation,  I  could  possess  myself  in  peace  until 
the  prison  broke  once  more.  Nothing  else,  beside 
the  perfecting  of  this  attitude  had  importance.  I 
was  alone.  But  I  had  seen  God. 


(i) 


THE    END 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

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